To the ass who stole my lawn mower,

Fuck you. I don’t say that very often because I’m a pretty nice lady, but you? You deserve it. In fact: fuck you twice.

I love this lawnmower. Love. I love how quiet it is, making me not just another suburban douchebag trimming my lawn with an unnecessarily loud, ozone-destroying machine. I love the cheerful green and orange color scheme it’s rocking. I love the “WEE-doo-doo! WEE-doo-doo!” of the wheels turning on it, and I even love the difficulty of using it; it’s a great workout.

Right after the lawyer gave Rob and me the keys our very first house, we walked through the front door had sex on the living room floor, and then we bought this lawn mower. It was a hell of a day. Way to ruin a memory.

I hope it cuts you and you need stitches, and that on the drive to the ER, it goes from 11:59 to midnight and your insurance lapses. I hope you never quite get the hang of using it and curse the day you stole it, or that, if you sell it, you get a really horrible deal.

May it kick up pebbles and fling them into your shins.

May you drunkenly trip over it and face-plant into a pile of wet grass clippings.

May it rust in your hands practically overnight.

You are a low-rent son of a bitch, and I hate you.

Amber