Hi Darling Ones,
I just got off the phone with my friend EM, my westernerd friend who lives in Madison. We were debriefing about the weekend. Well, she was. My weekend consisted of napping, reading, and eating soup. There wasn’t much to debrief about on my end. Though I did give a small lecture on my disappointment on what an asshole John Cougar Mellencamp was in the 80s and 90s, but that’s a topic for another day.
Towards the end of our conversation I told her that I think I’m getting sick. My eyes hurt, I felt run down, and my throat was killing me.
“It’s allergies,” she said.
“But I took my allergy meds this morning,” I said.
“The trees are full of crap making everyone miserable.”
“That’s ironic,” I said, popping more allergy meds into my gob. “I love trees. I have trees in my house.”
Then I told her about my trees, specifically Steven and Trevour. Steven, a much anticipated birthday tree, has been a big disappointment. However, Trevour who has been summering outside is growing like a god damn champ.
“Are you shaming your tree?” EM asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Steven is a disappointment and he should know it. He needs to either die or thrive. Pick a lane, Steven.”
“I had dreams of a giant, majestic tree in my bedroom. He did not live up to my expectations.”
“Umm. . .” she said.
“I realize this is a metaphor for all my relationships.”
“The old, it’s not me, it’s you.”
“Yup,” I said. “He could still live up to my expectations if he wants. Or he just needs to die and go away.”
She had no more responses until I told her I was gonna write about this. “So not only are you a tree shamer,” she said. “You’re a proud tree shamer.”
“It’s not my fault he sucks at being a tree.”
Honestly, Darling Ones, I a trying to accommodate Steven. I cater to his every need and do my best to keep Wendell the Vengeance Demon away from him. Steven is just not happy with me or my bedroom, which is a damn shame because I’ve never had complaints before.
Just kidding, I have. I’ve stupidly fucked thoughtlessly cruel men, but that’s a topic for another day.
P.S. I will say, for the record, one man told me, after we had sex, that my back was too long.