Thistles and Whirlpools

 


If your thought is a rose, you are a rose garden; and if it is a thistle, you are fuel for the fire. 



I don't like roses. I decided at an early age that they were a prickly pain in the ass. Beautiful to look at but best left alone for a fancier to tend to.

Thistles, on the other hand, are awesome. It is Mother Nature giving the middle finger to all other plant life. Want a tidy flower bed? F'koff. Want sweetly simmering scents? F'koff some more. Spent a few thousand bucks on sod? You see where this is going.

Love them or hate them, we can acknowledge these resilient bastards for their tenacity. I'll need to adopt a similar tenacious approach to glide past the weekend. It will all be worth it if I can make it to my appointment Monday afternoon.

Interesting note to end on: my dogs aren't bastards. Three of them unintentionally endured eleven hours gated upstairs - I was supposed to be home from the VAMC by 1 PM, not 5 PM. No piddles, no poop, good bork borks! They observed me puking on the toilet and quickly quieted down. And, they gave me little trouble before bed, even coming inside without too much nonsense. My entire world was a scary whirlpool and, just before I sunk the bottom, I focused long enough to see their concerned faces floating above me on the bed.

Hm. Maybe they thought I'd die and make for a good midnight snack?

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