Write about: the destroyer.
This morning I began work on our sprinkler rows, one of my least favorite jobs on the farm. They run between the garden plots and cannot be tilled by the tractor because the lines run too close to the surface (not to mention the bits where the actual sprinklers stick up out of the ground). So that means we either weed spray them (no thank you, not right next to our veggies) or use the weed eater on them.
I do not enjoy using the weed eater. It is loud and heavy and awkward and it makes my hands sore.
Anyway, I managed to get a row fully done, leaving three to go. It was probably the least overgrown of the bunch, but I had to start somewhere and I figured the least problematic row was the way to go.
During breaks from that I did a bit of hand weeding around the broccoli, beets, and carrots. I'm quite pleased with how little weeding remains to be done in the garden itself.
Now if only the same could be said about the sprinkler rows...
"He's gone missing."
"Who... are you serious? Are you being serious right now?"
"Uh... yeah? I don't know who you're talking about."
"This is unbelievable. I just... I just don't even know you. Maybe I should just go."
"Or... maybe you could tell me what the hell you're going on about?"
"If you don't already know then I'm not sure why I should even bother."
"All right, fine. The Destroyer's gone missing."
"The who now?"
"Oh, just get on with it!"
"The Destroyer. That's my nickname for my right bicep. I was just in the weight room an-"
"You have a nickname for your right bicep?"
"... just finish the story."
"I was just in the weight room and, as you well know, Thursdays are arm days. I was doing curls and... and... I couldn't curl my usual dumbbell with my right arm. It's like... The Destroyer vanished on me or something! I don't understand it, man. I just... I just don't!"
"How tragic. I'm leaving now."