Trees are getting out of hand. Who do they think they are? They think they can make me chase the sun, just to mercilessly hide me away from it? I don't care that they gave me the air to breathe from my lungs. I don't care that they give me a shadow too cool myself in a hot weather. If they want to just go and take the beauty of the eclipse from me like that, they need to pay! Their arrogance is sinful. Trees. That sinful weed. My hatred towards trees can't be counted in percentages, it can't be counted in litres, in can't even be count in pounds. To count my hatred, you'll have to invent a whole new system, which would be something between tons and light centuries. I may die, but my hatred will live. My hatred will outlive all of you, and your children, and even your grand-grand-grand children, trees. It'll live until this world will get deep fried by the exploding sun and become crunchy and tasty. Trees think they can take out property, our health and our lives. They think they own this planet. But let's show them trees that we are the daddies here. And the mommies. And the parents. I'll make sure there won't be a tree on the surface of this pathetic rock that won't witness my wrath. No tree is safe.
Don't trust trees. Don't let them decieve you.
But you know what I hate more than trees?
Chalk. It makes my hands dry(
