tacky

Soooooo. Today I was changing fly strips in the barn. Simple work. Not enjoyable. Everything is all sticky. And dusty. And dead.

The sun was shining, though it were a blustery morn, and the wind whistled through the open barn. Stirring up straw. And dust. And fly strips.

As I climbed the ladder, oh, the third or fourth time, the wind blew a lovely whirlwind of air into the barn, caught up that fly strip I was reaching for, and oh-so-playfully wrapped it around my head.

Words cannot explain the state in which it left me. Just imagine. No really. Here: a) fly strips b) dust c) more dust d) I don't trust you guys to imagine enough dust e) flies, dead f) STICKY

Now take all the things from your little imaginary cart and put them on my face. And in my hair. Remove the fly strip (with no little difficulty) and leave everything else. There! Aren't I a picture?

I'm still having difficulty blinking.