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Dear Trees,

What gives?  My entire life I have been kind to you in a direct sort of fashion.  Like remember that time when I was 3 and my dad planted a million of you in our yard and I was ecstatic to have a forest.  But then he explained to me that every year he would weed a few out until there were three left for shade?  And then I cried over your future loggy corpses and vowed to never forget you no matter how many other trees may come between us in my much longer life?

Clearly you don’t.

Or in all those times I have never gone camping, my hypothetical self was always very conscious of building fires in the forest because she listened to the wise wise words of a very behatted bear.

I suspected as much.

Or have you never heard of the book, “The Giving Tree”?  A beautiful love story between a boy and his tree printed on the smooth souls of the dead?  (An echo of birds that sang in their boughs can still ring out if you press your ear up against the taut page folds.)

Hmm, perhaps you haven’t.

I’ll spoiler alert the book for you.  In no part of this book is there a chapter wherein the boy says to the tree, “I would totally not like to breathe for a few months, can you make it happen?”  And then the tree released millions of its pollen puffed out sperm into the air to clog the nasal passageways of the boy and the aqueducts of his eyes.  And the boy could neither see nor breathe.  And the tree was happy.

Just as soon as this season of air sperm has passed, your uppance shall commence!  Oh yes, revenge shall be a dish served very cold this year indeed.


P.S.  A few minutes ago I thew away an entire ream of paper just because I could.