sounds true and hetrosexual.
> be me
> likes quiet time
> weed garden every weekend
> buffalo grass constantly invades my immaculate kikuyu
> use Grandpa's method of future speculation, been 5 year now, keeps me planned out
> scanning and tracing the roots back to their origin
> buffalo grass is like a hydra, always grows another sprout if you leave its base intact
> select the biggest root at the end of the hunt, count the ribs as do every week
> <3 ribs - 'danger zone, avoid people'
> 4-7 ribs - 'be cautious but otherwise smooth sailing'
> >7 ribs - 'theres something interesting around the corner'
> last week found a vein like a kangaroo tail, thicc and 16 whole ribs
> never happens, wasn't a rainy week either
> is my neighbour going to finally pay back the damages he did to my shed?
> am I getting 2 extra scallops in my next takeout order?
> should i keep the scratchys i was going to gift to my sisters?
> in awe, walking around the block bigtail in hand
> hands waving all over the place heads racing with speculation
> zone back in to the world around me
> looking straight towards the second story of redbricked building
> a young lady is getting a bit hot and heavy in the shower facing an open window (why?)
> we lock eyes
> "Eeep!" *window slams shut*
> family with a stroller looks to the paniced women whose naked silhouette can still be seen through the stained glass, then back to me
> i'm a shirtless man from the pliocene era wearing only a pair of boxers looking straight at her with glassy out of focus eyes
> scamper back home rootail in hand, "what else does week have in store?"
> keep sisters scratchys just incase i've still got some good fortune
> nothing out of the ordinary happens all week, only get scratchy return of $3.50, not even the full price of a single ticket
> lesson learnt. Way more than 12 ribs is inhuman and the method of predicting the future becomes literal and immediate.