I'm trying to drown out the incessant ice cream truck song with Cesaria Evora. It's not working--in fact the ice cream truck song keeps getting louder and more hateful in its math-like cheeriness. The ice cream truck drives round and round my block 12 hours a day, rain or shine. The ice cream truck will soon cause what's left of my senses to leave me.

File the remainder of this entry (hell--file the whole damned thing, come to think of it) under Further Evidence of Molu's Freakishness.

Each week I wait until my neighbors (the loud ones, the ones who count amongst their midst an evil little being disguised as a cute preadolescent boy, the ones who hit and yell and call each other stupid, the ones who throw trash at Basho and sometimes bike tires, the ones to whom I've not complained because I am the world's most fervent coward) go to church (yes, gentle reader, evil people go to church) before busting out the lawn mower and racing through the often odious task of conforming to neighborhood grass-length standards. You see, otherwise, they watch me. When I mow the lawn. I do not enjoy being looked at. Neither do I understand the appeal of staring at a perfectly ordinary looking human doing a perfectly ordinary task as if said ordinary human were a member of an alien race.

I have ceased to make sense. I know.

So this morning, it occurred to me that most people trim their hedges in addition to keeping their grass short. Hmm, I think, I do not own the appropriate tools. I, therefore, make my very first hedge-trimming attempt with a pair of safety scissors and a butcher knife. I do not recommend this. Particularly if you, like me, are plagued with locust weed (at least that's what I think it's called--that's what my landlord called it, so that's what I will call it). The wicked plant has positively shredded my hands. I'm typing now with my toes.