Sadistic Time Macine

Mowing a long-unmowed lawn is a bit like traveling in a sadistic time machine. I find that the things which are spat out the clippings chute are fairly indicative of past occurrences, the more painful versions of tree rings. As I round the corner, and feel the inevitable sting of detritus on my legs or miscellaneous shards in my eye, I can't help but observe: "Wow, that was the half decayed bottle cap from a pint of Jack Daniels my roommate enjoyed a bit too much of last October." "That feels like a stray calcified pickle from the subway sandwich carelessly thrown from a passing school bus in the parking lot next door last December," or even, "I could have sworn my pride was around here somewh...oh, there it is. Right in the kisser." Next time, I'm outsourcing.