It isn't easy being a klutz/goof/oaf. Whatever an oaf is.
Yeah...I have another one of those Misadventure Stories to share again. (No, not of Billy and Mandy; their show creeped me out.) But hey, I deal with my blockhead/"I need of a Twix Bar" moments just like the next person. Okay, sometimes my clumsiness can be slightly more vile than your average person. Sometimes I do feel slightly Mr.Bean-esque, but shouldn't I be proud to replicate the actions of such a talented comedic-master on a downsized, and more realistic scale?
I'm always working on making my clumsy-ass look more decent and less goofy.
It's like when I try on 5 outfits every night trying to figure out which one makes my boobs-or lack thereof-look less, well, less small; I find myself looking decent. Like I can be DECENTLY a clutz. I more-or-less try for the "adorable" stereotypical clutz to disguise my inner humiliation. Of course, after a tiresome night of frustrated clothing, I end up waking up in the morning-no not feeling like P. Diddy whatsoever-saying, "Dude, what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks kind of outfit did I pick out last night?" And I grab a thin sweater, possibly an old Zoo City or Hollister (not the hideous pink-moose-kissing Abercrombie I picked out to wear earlier in the year; that was one of my worse fashion faux paus so far as I've seen since since contently throughout the day people were asking me why I was wearing such an ugly and bulky looking sweater with mooses-what's the plural of moose?-making out/hooking up on it) as a I run out the front door with my Vans half on my feet still. Thankfully the ground is most likely wet from a morning mist outside my house and I'll get my socks soaking with water before I climb up the could-be-cleaner-public-school steps leading to the maze of inner hallways taking me into my most boring class: Bio, 1st period.
Anyway, to the story, yes?
Yesterday my mom wanted me to help her garden in my aunt's backyard because it was my aunt's husband's 60-something-th birthday (Oh yeah, definitely the "Party Animal" stage of life.) and Mom and I wanted to be there to help celebrate it. You could tell that my aunt and uncle really love each other. The way they look at the other person, and how my uncle calls my aunt his GIRLFRIEND just to make her feel special, you can tell how much in love they are. It's the kind of love that I believe most people want to have. Just like the Trix rabbit wants him some Trix, people want them some love. The two of them, my aunt and uncle, work together in a self-made lawyer partnership and go out for dinner to catch up on the days' activities all the time.
But anyway. Ha-ha I have a funny story to tell you. Kind of sad actually. It's what happened in the backyard. And then I must tell you about my dislike of all people with a certain name; the name which I will reveal later...gator. [Get it? "Later...gator?" HAH, ain't it PUNNY? Tune in next time for my lame pun/joke of the day.
Oh man I am so lame.]
I'm picking up a pile of dirt with a shovel and move it over to this small, wimpy looking plant with it's roots sticking out from dirt and I'm trying to cover it up that way my mom, who happens to be recently plant obsessed (Helloo Dr.Phil.), will say something along the lines of, "See? Now he's happy because his body is covered." Which, btw, could totally be turned into a "That's what she said" joke.
I toss the dirt over the plant and, natch, the plant decides to somehow reflect the dirt onto the red-tiled trail on the side instead. (Helloo Mr. Discarded-Mop-From-Sweeper-Commercials)
But that's not even the good part.
After I pan away most of the dirt back into the side of the yard, I take a small amount of dirt and gently place it over the plant's roots with the miniature shovel in my dainty, little hands which I have grown to dislike. (Screw my skinniness, I wanna be curvy and complain about being fat like the rest of my friends.)
To make the dirt level with the rest of the dirt surrounding the plant, I smack my shovel against the dirt I just put on the plant. Hard.
The first time I smacked it the top of the shovel hit my knee and I winced.
"This sucks." I thought.
To get out my aggressions I continuously hit the mound of Earth's precious gem rooting life: dirt. But then I looked down and saw the head (or back, couldn't really tell) of a worm sticking out the dirt like a freakin' Whack-A-Mole.
You have got to be kidding me.
I didn't see the worm until I lifted my shovel after a good whack and saw the creeper wincing and squirming in pain.
Some people really like hurting bugs, but I'm not one of them. It sounds crazay, but when I see a bug I don't get scared of them hurting ME, I get scared of me hurting THEM. I feel terrible when I kill a spider or beetle crawling it's way around me. I mean, most bugs are so vulnerable and teeny; how is it at all fair to just squish 'em? I guess they kind of remind me of myself, small and easy to step on at times. Obviously I mean metaphorically stepping on me (As in, "Step all over you.") while I mean stepping on in the literal level when it comes to insects and bugs. Is it the empathy and sense of same that gives me these feelings?
So, I feel horrible and squeamish as I look at the worm wiggling it's little head (possibly it's bottom). And then it stops moving. I freeze, panic, and could0 probably do the robot right now because I feel like my heart has frozen; since robots don't have working hearts, right now I might be able to do a decent Mr. Roboto danceathon.
"Mom! I think I just knocked-out a worm!" I call to the Mother.
"Just bury it in dirt! The sun will dry him up!" She says using her usual pronoun of "Him" to describe any inanimate object ranging from a teddy bear to plant to a piece of candy shaped like an octopus. At least she isn't one of those people who add the word "Mister" to inanimate objects (like, "Turn Mr. Teakettle off!" or "Mr. Bear wants a hug!" or "Mr. Wall doesn't like it went you slam your head into him rigidly as I speak to you!").
My heart thaws slightly (Like microwaving a slab of icy meat which was stuck in your freezer the past week and a half) and I take action. Nothing major like protesting against knocking out worms (I could see it now: "Worms are People Too!" and "KO Worms? KO YOU!" and "Mamma said knock YOU out!" picket signs lined up along every block in America or being the lead showcase in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade for the couple of years. "Until they get their justice!" the people will shout.
but I used the trusty shovel, which was the main source of problems in the trouble from that day (the trouble was NOT coffee in a cardboard cup), and lightly covered the worm with soil. I got a decently large amount of dirt and covered the roots of the plant completely being very careful to not harm the fragile state of the worm. That is, if worms have a fragile state of being.
The G-Tron Meter is overloading with a too high percentage right now.
And by G, I don't mean Gangstah. I mean Goofy.
-That Girl, "Stupid is as Stupid does." -Forest Gump.