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There seems to be a troll or goblin-like varmint living absolutely rent free in the confines of the spacious, less than fashionable subconscious section of my skull. Even worse is the fact that he needs only one thing in life.
It isn’t sustenance.
It isn’t to be heard.
It isn’t even to obtain or participate in copious and gratuitous acts of unga bunga.
Nope.
The only reason the little petulant malcontent exists is to derail my best intentions.
I don’t know why.
Deep down, I do.
I just don’t want to admit it.
At this point, I have two options on dealing with the little machete wielding garden gnome that keeps messing with me.
I can continue to resist his sorcerous ways using some catchy battle cry like “Resist We Much!”
That really hasn’t worked.
The alternative is to adopt the mantra de la Borg and embrace the fact that resistance is futile. Perhaps the gnome’s presence over the last few years has been a sign that a few of my best held and cherished practices aren’t worth the fecal flotsam and jetsam strewn about my backyard started kit that my pit bull gobbles up from time to time.
Dagnabbit.
