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I got home from the night shift at 6:25 AM. I committed the gravest mistake a night-owl can make: I’d taken a long nap before work. I laid in bed, but my brain was buzzing. The nefarious lands of nothingness weren’t calling; the yard was.

Phase 1: The Bustello Breakdown

I fired up the coffee machine, brewed some Bustello, and went ham. My lawn had been looking like a post-apocalyptic Arby’s parking lot for two weeks. I tilled until my hands hurt. I wasn’t satiated. I picked up the clippings, the trash, and everything that needed the boot.

Phase 2: The Chaos Tax

I invited the jefita for a trip to the disposal site—little trip, big guts. But you know how it is. One “let’s go to the supermarket” later, and I’m paying a 2-hour chaos tax. By the time we got home, I crashed like a dirty, sucio sock.

One hour of sleep felt like eight. I woke up, grabbed some Corona Familiar, and tried to start a seafood boil. If it wasn’t for my niece saving the pot, it would’ve tasted like a ramen packet. Win for the niece.

Phase 3: The Nextdoor Guilt

Then it hit me. An email from six days ago. A neighbor needing help moving “trash and shit.” I’ve got that extended bed from an ’87 square body GMC—a relic from my younger days. My brain said “I can do this,” but I snoozed, and the days passed.

Now I’m sitting here, a little crunk, feeling that sucio rat sin of guilt. That Nextdoor app is the ultimate trap for a fixer who works too hard at work and harder at home. But you know what, there is someone up above watching the chaos unfold. Cheers vatos and vatas!!!