When I was a kid, I remember my parents telling me that dandelions were a weed, and that blowing all the white fluffy things around was helping spread weeds. “I don’t care!” kid Lyssa thought, “It’s making all my wishes come true!”
Well, Kid Lyssa, you’re an idiot.
Every single one of those wishes has manifested itself in my front yard, which is mostly patio, yet stubborn, fat, deep-rooted purple-stemmed dandelions have managed to take root around concrete, brick, and stone. It’d be admirable, really, if they weren’t so absurdly impossible to remove. They’ve bent the steel of my special dandelion digger that looks like a sceptor the devil might carry and my trowel and my hands. They’ve teased me as I felt the pull of the earth rumbling beneath them, on the edge of triumph to pull their seedy white underbellies into the light of day, only to pull a few leaves off in my hands. They’ve belittled my aversion to gardening, forcing me to get on my hands and knees to have any hope—however small—of killing them by their roots.
Fuck dandelions.
Even their name, so noble, suggesting the innocence of “dandy” with the strength of a “lion,” is an insult.
Kid Lyssa, I hope your wishes did indeed come true. All seven million of the spores you spread. Because for Adult (oh, we should probably put air quotes around that) Lyssa, the damn dandelions you had a hand in planting are an absolute nightmare.
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