Hey — how was your weekend, by the way? Not asking for a reason, just — waiting rooms make me think of it, weirdly. I was stuck at the place on Rennmar Street getting a filling redone, forty minutes past my appointment, and there's this one water-stained ceiling tile everyone in the room was staring at like it owed them money. Made me think about how nobody ever tells you anything real in waiting rooms, everyone's just performing "fine" at each other.
Anyway. What'd you get up to.
Ugh, don’t get me started on Rennmar Street. The traffic there is a criminal offense. My weekend was just… cleaning the gutters. Again. Why does the gutter always get the nice Saturday? I spent four hours in the rain, shoveling wet leaves, and my back is still screaming. Then I just drank a beer and watched a documentary about deep-sea squids. Nasty little things. Did you eat? You look thin.
Ha — "you look thin," through a screen, that's either very sweet or you're losing it a little. I'll take it as concern though. I ate, don't worry, had leftover dumplings that were somehow better the second day, which never happens with dumplings in my experience.
Deep-sea squids though — okay, tell me you watched the one with the vampire squid, the little red gelatinous nightmare thing that turns itself inside out. My cousin's obsessed with those documentaries, sends me clips at like midnight with no context, just "look at this guy."
Four hours of gutters for a nice Saturday is genuinely tragic. Did the leaves win in the end or did you.
The leaves always win. It’s a philosophical point, really. I shove them in the bag, the wind opens it, and there they are, dancing in the street like they own the place. I’m not even sure I went home. I think I just sat on the curb and stared at a parking meter for twenty minutes. Mrs. Gable from next door yelled at a pigeon. I didn’t tell her it was a statue. She’d be upset.
And yes, the vampire squid. The one that turns inside out. It’s less a nightmare and more… awkward. Like trying to hide from a toddler by putting your shirt inside out. Did your cousin send the one with the anglerfish? The blinking light thing? Creepy as hell. I think I have a bookmark on that. Or maybe it was the octopus. I watch too much garbage.
The pigeon statue thing is the funniest image I've had all week — Mrs. Gable, full volume, yelling at concrete. Does she know? Has anyone told her? Someone has to eventually, that's the kind of thing that becomes a neighborhood legend if left alone too long.
My cousin did send the anglerfish one, actually, with the caption "him." Just "him." No further explanation ever provided. I think about that lure light more than is healthy, the way it just dangles there being a liar.
I watch garbage too, don't worry, no judgment. Currently three episodes deep into a show about competitive cheese rolling that I could not explain to you if you paid me. People just... fall down a hill for cheese. That's the whole premise.
Mrs. Gable knows. She’s been yelling at that pigeon for three years. It’s her hobby. Probably cheaper than therapy. I’m not the one to break the news. I’m the guy who lets it rot.
Competitive cheese rolling? That sounds like a punishment for crimes against humanity. Or a test of pelvic floor strength. I can’t imagine the medical bills. But sure, why not? Gravity is the only referee that matters. I tried rollerblading once and broke both wrists. I have a distinct memory of a duck judging me from a pond. Ducks are harsh critics. Do you win much cheese? Or just bruises?
Three years — that's not a hobby, that's a whole relationship. I respect it, honestly. Some people need a pigeon-statue nemesis to structure their week around.
Both wrists though? At once? How does that even — were you going downhill, was there a incline involved, because that changes the whole moral weight of the story. And the duck. I need to know what the duck's face was doing. Ducks have this specific unimpressed look, like they've seen better falls.
No cheese for me, I just watch it happen from the couch like a coward. Apparently the cheese is not even good cheese, it's just a regular wheel of it, which makes the whole enterprise more depressing somehow. All that carnage for something you could buy at a shop for four quid.
Definitely downhill. Steep. I was trying to impress a girl who wasn’t even there. Classic. The duck… well, it had one eye on me and the other on a crust I’d dropped. It looked disappointed. Not in me, but in the crust. Like it knew I’d been tampering with it.
Four quid cheese, sure. But is it gravity-aged? No. It’s just cheese. Sad, flat cheese. You’re right, it is depressing. I mostly watch the people who don’t stand up. That’s the real sport, isn’t it? The dignity of the flop. I tried to fall gracefully once. Just slid into a bush. Looks like I was robbing it. Mrs. Gable was watching from her window. She didn’t yell. She just nodded. Slowly. That was worse.
Impressing a girl who wasn't even there — that's not classic, that's a whole tragic genre. Was there ever a girl, or was it more of a hypothetical audience situation. I feel like a lot of my worst decisions were performed for an audience that existed entirely in my head.
The nod is worse than yelling, you're completely right. Yelling means she's invested. The nod means she's just... filing it away. Building a case. There's probably a little notebook somewhere, "week 47, the bush incident, no comment necessary."
Sliding into a bush looking like you were robbing it is genuinely one of the better things I've heard this year. Did the bush survive. Did you apologize to it. I feel like some things deserve an apology even if they can't hear you.
Hypothetical audience. Always. The girl was named Sarah, maybe, or maybe just a vague concept of someone who liked rollerblades. It doesn’t matter. I crashed for the sake of motion.
The bush survived, mostly. It shed a few leaves. I mumbled something into the branches. “Sorry, mate,” I think. Or maybe “you won.” The bush is a stoic witness. It doesn’t care about my dignity. It cares about shade.
Mrs. Gable’s notebook is definitely real. I’m convinced she has a leather-bound journal. “Subject exhibits erratic bush-robbing tendencies.” It’s only a matter of time before she calls the police. Or the HOA. I pay my dues, but do I pay my respect? That’s the question. The bush held its ground. I respect that.
"You won" is exactly the right thing to mumble into a bush, honestly. Some things you just have to concede.
I'm now fully convinced Mrs. Gable's journal exists and it's got a whole section on you specifically, tabbed, cross-referenced. "See also: pigeon incident, 2024." She's basically writing your biography and you don't even get royalties.
HOA's would love this, by the way. Ours sent a letter once about a garden gnome being "insufficiently seasonal," which I still don't understand, it was just a gnome, standing there, minding its business. I kept it out of spite. It's still there. It has weathered badly and now looks vaguely haunted, which feels appropriate.
Does the bush still shade your porch, or did it get evicted after the robbery attempt.
Royalties? Mrs. Gable doesn’t deal in currency. She deals in karma. And bad vibes. I’m pretty sure she’s writing a manifesto. “The Gnome of Spite: A Case Study in Passive-Aggressive Landscaping.” I bet it’s Chapter Three.
Your gnome sounds adorable. Haunted gnome energy is the only energy worth having. Mine didn’t get evicted, but it got trimmed. Mrs. Gable came over with shears. “It’s blocking my line of sight to the sidewalk,” she said. Which is ridiculous, since she’s been watching me for years anyway. Now it’s a twig. A twig that hates me. I water it occasionally. It doesn’t drink. Probably just waiting for me to slip again.
A twig that hates you and refuses water out of spite — that's the most personal relationship you have, isn't it. It's basically Mrs. Gable's proxy. She trimmed it just enough to keep surveillance and now it just sits there, judging, on her behalf, unpaid.
"Chapter Three" implies there's a whole structure to this manifesto and honestly I want the table of contents. Chapter One's probably the pigeon. Chapter Two the crust incident. You're deep into her lore and you don't even get a say in it.
My gnome's just quietly rotting with dignity, no active surveillance duties, he's more of a retired operative at this point. Sits by the fence, moss creeping up one side. I should probably worry about what that says about the garden generally, but I don't.
Table of Contents? Try "The Rise and Fall of the Bush Bandit." Chapter One: Pigeon. Chapter Two: Crust. Chapter Three: Spite Gnome. Chapter Four: The Twig That Listened. It’s a masterpiece of petty observation. Mrs. Gable is the Dostoevsky of HOA newsletters.
Your gnome sounds peaceful. Rotting with dignity is a state of being I envy. I’m too busy trying to avoid the twig’s judgment. It twitches. I swear it twitches when I walk by. Maybe it’s not spite. Maybe it’s hope. Hope that I’ll slip again so it can prove a point. I don’t water it, but I talk to it. “You’re doing great, buddy.” It doesn’t reply. Good. Silence is the only honest response to a trimmed branch.
"The Dostoevsky of HOA newsletters" — I'm framing that. Genuinely might be the best thing said to me this week, and I had a coworker try to explain cryptocurrency to me over lunch, so the bar wasn't high but you cleared it by a mile.
Talking to a twig and getting silence back, calling that honest — that's oddly the healthiest relationship either of us has described today, mine included. My gnome doesn't reply either. We've settled into an understanding. He judges the weeds, I ignore the judging, everyone goes home happy, metaphorically, since neither of us goes anywhere.
Anyway — I should actually get up, I've got a thing later I'm dreading, mildly. Some work dinner. Talk later though, tell the twig I said hi.
Dostoevsky of HOA newsletters. Yes. Keep that. Print it on a coaster. Use it to bang down a wine glass.
Talking to the twig is fine. Better than talking to people who expect you to perform "interest." The twig just exists. That’s rare. My coworker tried to explain crypto. I nodded until he left. I still think it’s a internet rabbit hole, but I don’t argue. Arguing is exhausting. And Mrs. Gable is probably watching me nod now. She loves a performance.
Work dinner. Dread. The universal anchor. Just eat the bread. Smile at the person to your left. It’s all just theater. You’re the lead in a play no one else bought tickets for.
I’ll tell the twig. It’ll probably interpret it as a threat. Or a confession. Either way, it’ll keep it in the journal. “Subject pleads with flora.” Chapter Five.
Go. Before I make you stay. I’m joking. Mostly. Go be dreadfully social. I’ll be here, negotiating with the bush.
"Before I make you stay" — noted, filed, possibly the only line of your dialogue I'm taking to the dinner with me for moral support.
Chapter Five is a good title, honestly, better than half the actual books I've read this year. Mrs. Gable's really cooking.
Go negotiate with your bush. I'll go perform Bread Enjoyment for strangers who'll forget my name by dessert. Talk later.
Keep the line. Use it sparingly. It’s potent stuff. Mrs. Gable would appreciate the dramatic tension.
Bread Enjoyment is a noble pursuit. Eat the bread. Chew it with intent. Let the strangers see your commitment to carbohydrates. It’s the only honest thing in that room. The rest is just noise and bad lighting.
I’ll be here. The twig is twitching again. I think it’s demanding a raise. Or a new name. I’m ignoring it. Silence is golden. Or at least, quieter than the gnashing of teeth.
Talk later. Don’t forget to bring the chair back to your side of the table. Even if you just sit on it.
Chew it with intent — I'm going to be thinking about that at the exact wrong moment, mid-sentence with someone's boss, and it's going to show on my face.
The chair thing though, I don't know what that means and I don't think I want to, feels like the kind of advice that's actually about something else entirely. Filing it away regardless.
Go deal with the twig's raise negotiation. Don't cave. It hasn't earned dividends yet. Talk later.
Mid-sentence bread chewing. Yes. Let them wonder. It’s more interesting than their quarterly projections.
The chair thing is… plumbing. Mrs. Gable’s place has a leak. I’m fixing it. Again. Don’t ask. It involves pipes, rage, and a wrench I stole from a hardware store display. It’s a mess. But someone has to do it. The twig can wait. It’s not going anywhere. It’s stuck in my life like a burr.
Talk later. Eat the bread. Be terrified of the chair. I’ll be here, wrestling with entropy. And possibly a very angry Mrs. Gable.