Lick a rock

Hope, you may be appalled. And William, you may well approve. But: the floor in my room is littered with the brass casings of .22 shells. Or, the floor in my room near my window, that is.

Yeah, I’m still a firm believer in gun control. Probably for reasons exactly such as this. But as long as gun use isn’t controlled or restricted (in Wyoming, no less)…

Allow me to explain. One of my side-projects this summer has been to turn the weed-patch around my house in to a lawn– or something generally green, soft, and resembling a lawn. So I’ve planted seed and hauled in tons (literally) of top-soil, etc. And, what-d’ya know, there’s actually grass growing. It’s small and feeble, as of yet, but mmm… It makes me happy, strangly.

Enter stage right: the gopher invasion. All over the lawn. *ahem.* Did’ja miss the sign, gopher punks?! MY lawn. Well. Apparently, small and feeble, in gopher parlance, is codeword for tasty and tender. So look out my window at any given time, and you can just count the gophers, crawling, slithering, eating my small, feeble grass.

I live on the 2nd floor, you see. And, yeah, I get a great view of the Colorado Front Range from my room. It’s nice. But I also have a great view of my back lawn/weed-patch, which is nice, too, but more in a Lee Harvy Oswald sense than, say, an aesthetic one, if you catch my drift. =)

So yeah. I dug out my grandfather’s old single-shot, bold-action, open-sight .22 rifle (from under my dad’s bed). And, as I write this, empty brass casings litter my floor.

You do the math. =)