Intro:
I’m a proud introvert with an unhealthy affection for indoor comforts like air-conditioning, running water, and the sweet safety of being shielded from the elements. Living in a place with a hurricane season, I thought I was prepared for anything… until Beryl came along. That storm was so angry, she threw in tornadoes for free! The audacity.
My Story:
I am a suburban momma, living in a world of cookie-cutter houses that stretch endlessly like the world’s most unoriginal jigsaw puzzle. The lawns are pristine, the plants are approved by a council of plant overlords, and everything looks like it’s been photo-shopped to perfection. The HOA rules over us like benevolent monarchs, and the wildlife is contained to designated zones (also known as “places we pay to not encounter”).
Then came the storm. A most disrespectful and rude guest, uninvited yet relentless. It flattened fences, toppled trees, and freed all the critters that had previously been “restricted” to certain areas. Welcome to my new life of third-world suburban living. For a week, I experienced the joy of no power, no trash pick-up, and the fiery embrace of a heatwave that could only have been summoned by a vengeful sun.
The critters were… crittering. Picture this: you’re calmly about to take out the trash when you see it—a slitherer, just minding its own business, completely unaware of the HOA rules that forbid it from wandering into your garage. We had no choice but to gather the neighborhood for a council meeting. Sadly, the local wildlife did not RSVP.
Enter Sally—the hero of our saga. Sally is a catch-and-release specialist who bravely captured the slitherer (who, by the way, had zero permission to be in my garage) and released it into the neighbor’s yard. It’s an arrangement. We do our part, they do theirs, but honestly, I’m starting to think this is some kind of scam between Sally and the slitherer.
Imagine this: You’re strolling down your own street, feeling relatively safe, when BAM! You’re swarmed by a gang of vampires—the bloodsucking mafia has arrived. These little guys don’t just want a nibble; they want protection money. They swarm in intimidating gangs, ensuring that you’ll stay indoors where it’s safe, unless you want to sign up for their delightful “treatment plan.”
In the midst of this wild jungle, people have started rebuilding fences and retreating to their backyards—creating little sanctuaries with online remedies to fend off the bloodsuckers. And when I say “online remedies,” I mean things like shave bar soap, candles, tiki torches, and vinegar mixtures that promise to work but probably won’t. Still, it’s better than just resigning ourselves to becoming mosquito meals.
But THEN, you enter your oasis, feeling victorious with your so-called “bug-free” haven… only to find an alligator. Yes, an alligator. Not just any alligator, though. This is a six-foot-long swamp puppy, just basking in the sun like it owns the place. Languishing like a diva on the edge of your DIY backyard oasis. I tried to shoo it away with a garden hose, but that just seemed to amuse it more. In fact, I think it might’ve even enjoyed it. Now I’m forced to call animal control, because apparently, my HOA didn’t cover alligators in their bylaws.
Between dodging turtles, slitherers, and the bloodsucking mafia, my once peaceful suburban paradise has transformed into an impromptu wildlife preserve. I’ve decided to start charging for entry. Consider it the most immersive safari experience in town.
Conclusion:
Lesson learned: always bring bug spray. Or, better yet, just bring a machete and a thick pair of boots. Because this jungle is out for blood.
Short stories from a Broken soul 