I went into my garden expecting peace. Birds chirping. Sunlight. Emotional healing.
Instead, I saw it.
A suspicious shape.
A familiar menace.
A crime scene with no dog in sight.
My brain immediately went: oh no.
I stood there, arms crossed, disappointed in the universe. Then curiosity won. I took a step closer. Then another.
That’s when the horror shifted.
The texture was… wrong.
Too structured.
Too confident.
I leaned in like a detective in a low-budget crime show and whispered, “Wait a second.”
Reader.
It was not poop.
It was a mushroom. A bold one. A mushroom that woke up that morning and said, I’m going to ruin someone’s day for three full seconds.
Nature really said, “What if I made a fungus that looks like regret?”
I backed away slowly, unsure whether to apologize or salute it. Somewhere out there, evolution is laughing. The mushroom won. I lost. My trust in the garden is permanently damaged.
Anyway, if I disappear, assume the mushroom has moved.
