Happy birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me,
I’m going to war on those stupid chickens,
And I can’t rhyme that with anything except kitchens.
Turns out poetry isn’t my thing.
As for the Birthday, my rent payment broke, because of the delay caused by my contracting agent, so I paid late (sorry landlord) My digital TV antenna broke yesterday, and it doesn’t get a signal anymore (there are THREE antennas stuck to the side of my house, and I don’t even know where to start a possible repair job.) AND my phone seems to have broken because now it doesn’t receive texts. (And it’s NOT because the mailbox is full, or because I’m not on the network.)
I’m not sure about you, but I don’t think 27 is a good year so far.
Also. I brought my drawings from last night to share with you. Below was my attempt to express how I felt after coming home to find my ONE DAY OLD country garden smashed to smithereens by the stupid fat chickens that trespass on my front yard. I was so angry I just wanted to grab them by their fat necks and football throw them into the neighbours back yard.
So Sunday afternoon I went and brought some flowers that were on sale for crazy good prices ($16 for 12 plants? DONE.) And then I dug up a path of dead grass and made myself a really pretty country garden bed.
Then on Monday morning I went to work.
11 hours later, this greeted me as I got home. The bastard chickens that belong to the landlord had spent 11 hours systematically destroying my dreams of having an idyllic, colourful country garden. The bastards also ate every single flower off my 12 bushes – as in, NOT ONE SINGLE FLOWER was left when I got home.
I was so mad I nearly cried. Amongst other things…
This year when I blow out my birthday candles (all 25 of them, because quite frankly I’m not ready to be 27) I’m going to wish that the chickens get kicked off the farm. Or eaten by the landlords for Christmas dinner, or that the landlords decide that actually, all four of the stupid fat chickens deserve to live in a chicken coup.
Until my birthday wish comes true, I’m declaring war on the chickens. How much do you think it would cost to import child labour to act as a 24/7 scarecrow in my garden? I mean, the razor wire and landmines will likely get the chickens before they get through no-mans land and into my yard, but you can’t be too careful.