They'll split my infinitive when they pry it from my cold dead larynx.
Back when the solar system was young, there was life in my back yard. That was thousands of dollars ago. Now that the trees are gone and the long, dark, brutal North Carolina winter is coming to an end, it's time to grow grass.
Yeah, right.
I could step out there right now, put a shovel in the ground, and come up with a big scoop of clay that you could throw, fire, glaze, and would last a thousand years. There are no organic components to that "soil", unless you count the two crickets and 40-odd ants that have freakin' starved to death trying to cross that vast, barren, unforgiving wasteland.
Back in Auburn all I needed was a few bags of composted cow manure.
This time I'll need a cow. Maybe a bison.
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