The Cheerleader I Live With and I are arguing right now. And for the record, he just called me a wuss.

Jerk.

Here’s the thing: I hate grass. Loathe the stuff, really. It gives me the full-on heebie jeebies, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. The Cheerleader I Live With revels in this fact, and enjoys taking every opportunity to try and freak me out when it comes to all things lawnesque. For example, he loves to dance barefoot in the grass, hippity-hopping in front of me like some demented, six-foot, jerk leprechaun. He also enjoys telling me that he and his friend are going to head to the park to throw the frisbee around… while barefoot. Gross. Simply f*cking gross.

Here’s what we’re arguing about… The Cheerleader I Live With says that I have a fear of grass. I disagree, call him a mutant, and then explain to him that I am not afraid of grass, I just think it’s disgusting. Big difference.

What is it that I hate so much about grass? LOTS. It’s sharp and pokey, it’s wet in some places, dogs poop on it, teenagers barf on it, bees hide in it, it gets too dry, it gets too long, it harbours mosquitoes, and random blades of grass stick to the bottom of your feet. Look! Look at that – they’re even called BLADES of grass – why would anyone be ok with running barefoot in a field of blades?! What is wrong with you people?

But the worst thing, the absolute worst thing, is the way that rocks snuzzle into the grass and hide. They just lay their, muffling their giggles as your innocent bare foot approaches its hiding spot. Then, just as you’re carrying that big, heavy bowl of Aunt Linda’s potato salad to the picnic table, that dumbass rock deftly rolls its pokiest, sharpest side under the softest, fleshiest part of your innocent foot. WHAM! That big, fat rock jabs you in that perfect space where your big toe mound crests and begins to descend into the fleshy mound of your other innocent toes.

That’s the worst! No one expects a ROCK to be hiding in the grass! It’s not supposed to be there! It’s like sliding into soft, silk sheets only to find a velociraptor hiding at the foot of the bed. The only reasons that rocks hide in the grass is because they get a sick satisfaction out of incapacitating you, and watching you hop around on the other foot as you cradle the mortally wounded one it just attacked. Careful though, that stupid rock has pals that just lie in wait to attack the foot you’re hopping on – they thrive on humiliating you. F*cking rocks.

No, nothing happened to me as a child that made me loathe grass. In fact, my mother has a photo of a toddler-sized me up on tippy toes and fingertips, screaming my bloody face off because she decided that it would be adorable to drop me in the middle of the lawn. She was a sick, sick woman.

Anyway, that’s what The Cheerleader I Live With and I are arguing about today. I hate grass, he loves grass and thinks I’m nuts for hating grass. SEE? grass is evil! It’s even trying to come between me and my boyfriend…  relationship-destroying grass…

F*cking grass.

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