Bella Imperia: The things I don’t say

Another sunrise, another call to arms. Peace is apparently not an option for me, because once again I found myself drafted into combat. This time, the mission was clear: the Boston ferns needed to be hung on the porch.

Simple task, some might say. Quick little chore. Nothing dramatic.

Those people are fools.

What awaited me was not gardening. It was war.

The battlefield was hot, unforgiving, and humid enough to make breathing feel optional. The enemy forces were already assembled upon my arrival: bees conducting aerial surveillance, wasps fueled by violence, and mosquitoes with a bloodthirsty agenda. They circled like vultures, sensing weakness, or at the very least exposed ankles.

Still, I pressed forward.

Then came the first true test of courage.

A fat bee.

Not just any bee. A thick-bodied, confident, no-nonsense bee who looked like he paid property taxes on my porch. We locked eyes. A silent challenge passed between us. I moved… he moved. I froze… he froze. We were engaged in an ancient ritual known only as the staring contest of mutual disrespect.

Then suddenly—he charged at me.

I gasped, reconsidered all my life choices, and prepared to meet my maker. But just before impact, he paused midair, hovering with menace as if deciding whether I was worth the paperwork.

A question flashed through my mind in that moment:

Am I allergic to bee stings?

I would not like to find out.

By some miracle, diplomacy prevailed and he backed off, though not without making it clear this was his warning and not my victory.

Shaken but unbroken, I continued the mission.

Armed with hooks, tools, determination, and misplaced confidence, I approached the ladder. It stood there wobbling ominously, like it too had chosen a side. Every step upward felt like a negotiation with fate. The higher I climbed, the more it swayed, whispering threats with every creak.

Would I survive the battle?

Would the heat defeat me before I could finish?

Would the ferns remain earthbound, drooping in disappointment, forever dreaming of the porch life they deserved?

There were casualties.

Tools were broken in the line of duty. Tears were shed. A little blood was sacrificed to the cause. My vocabulary took a dark turn, and censorship was abandoned almost immediately. Words were said that would make a sailor pause respectfully.

Sweat poured like rain. It mingled with tears and rolled directly into my eyes, because apparently my suffering needed dramatic flair. I could barely see, yet still I fought on. Blinded, bitten, overheated, and balancing on a ladder that seemed to resent me personally.

But I did not quit.

No. I persevered.

With grit, stubbornness, and what can only be described as feral determination, I completed the mission. The Boston ferns were lifted high into their rightful place, swaying triumphantly from the porch like banners after victory.

The enemy retreated. The ladder was conquered. The porch was beautified.

And I, once again, emerged battered but undefeated.

Now, as all champions must, I retire to recover. Tylenol awaits me like a loyal medic. Epsom salt prepares the healing waters of restoration. My muscles will groan, my skin will itch, and I may never emotionally recover from the mosquitoes.

But let it be known:

The ferns are hung.

And I have won again.

-Bella Imperia