Irony

Thrown across trees, ribbons of it spanned the yard and the cars. When I woke up this morning I did not know this is how my day would begin. It was oddly beautiful the way it flitted in the wind, the way it spun and twirled. Like those ribbon-stick-things held by gymnasts, only this was toilet paper. Some kids had decided that my house needed redecorating, being the daughter of a high school math teacher, it wasn't too unexpected. Happened about once a year, usually right before summer when school was coming to a point and failing grades were no longer salvagable. I started picking up the pieces, doing my best not to tear the sections up in the trees. If I did, it would be weeks before the little pieces got blown down. It looked like they used a whole 24-pack this time, it blanketed everything. It wasn't the cheap single-ply either, this was nice, Charmin Ultra-Soft or something. Could see one of those little Charmin bears now, coming out to wipe their ass on my grass.

It took almost an hour to get it all picked up. I took the huge wad of it and stuck in the firepit in the background, laid some wood on top of it and decided there would be a fire and smores that evening. I went back inside and sat in front of the TV. There was a story on the news about some wierd virus coming out of China, something like the flu, but worse. It didn't seem too worrisome, the anchor only mentioned it briefly before continuing on about the presidiental campaigns. I munched on a bag of marshmallows and sipped some fresh coffee, absentmindedly scrolling through my phone. I didn't know it yet, but I was witnessing the fall of Rome, with Wi-Fi and a warm home.