The Experiment

Last week's newspaper is on the grass in our front yard. As you face the house, it's resting on the lawn on the left between the driveway and the front walk, near the struggling dogwood tree. It has been there since last Thursday, when it was delivered. This week's paper has now joined it.

It's still there because I'm running an experiment to see how long it takes before someone other than me picks it up and brings it inside. So far, everyone is waiting on me to do it. I know the mailman is probably running his own experiment, since he walks by it everyday and hasn't yet placed it on our front porch. I guess he figures he's already feeding our dog (a treat a day), why should he get the paper, too?

Our neighbors, though they are unaware, are in on the experiment, as well. I'm trying to find out how long it will take for one of them to come walking over and kick it onto the front porch or say something to me about it or stand in her front yard and stare menacingly in the direction of our house.

I'm wondering how much longer I can go on with this little project, as the sight of that newspaper is starting to eat at me every time I pull in and out of the driveway. I try not to look in its direction, but the contrast of the bleached white pages against the deep green grass makes me look every time. Some days, I believe I'm spiraling into a mini-psychotic state, deluded by the idea that the newspaper is itself conspiring against me.

This is driving me mad, mad I tell you. If someone doesn't pick up that newspaper soon, I'm going to bonk. My family doesn't like it when I bonk. Why is the mailman doing this to us? Why doesn't he just pick it up and put it on the porch? I think he's mumbling about me under his breath every day that he brings the mail and that glaring indication of my loss of control is still there.

Do I have to do everything around here?

I can see this isn't going well; not how I planned. Experiment aborted. I'm going out to bring in the old news.