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It turns out Sycamore is beautiful from the outside, and spring has sprung like a coiled viper filled with allergen venom with its heat sensors set for my nostrils. I pop Claritan the way I used to pop vicodin (its funny what age does) and I was not to be deterred from marveling in the beauty of my new home from the outside. I thought I would share some photographs, if that's okay. Afterwards, I'm going to go cook Salmon and blast Slayer at volume Eleven, but for now, pictures:
the rosebuds are coming en masse. This particular rosebush was planted in 1932. I have absolutely zero intention of letting it die under my watch.
The backyard fence is lined with Honey Suckle and when I say lined, I'm referring to a constant 40 yards. The smell is intoxicating in a much different way than a Singapore Sling, but as equally enthralling nonetheless.
I have no idea what this plant is other than a very exotic house warming gift I have named Seymour. It shares similar characteristics with the orchid family, yet its behavior is perplexing. I dread its adolescence, demanding body parts as payment for its protection.
Lastly, I'd like to close with Merica. Because Merica.
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