May 26th, 2007

consider it dug

A svelte young man, 18 lovers to his name.

Our backyard is the size of a postage stamp, consisting of cement and brick and crushed, empty cans of Budweiser. Nothing should be able to live there.

The tree has managed to survive for over three years. I first cut it down while I was still in high school, my mother ripped it out the year after I graduated, and my father tackled it last summer. Somehow, despite predation and other issues (not having any proper soil in which it can grow being a particularly notable example), the damn tree keeps coming back. It manages to survive, reaching its arms through the concrete jungle: it was taller than ever before this year, with a thicker, stronger trunk.

Today, my father suggested chopping down the tree. I had already finished mowing the lawn and was prepared to dive back into my latest book, but I agreed. Saw in hand, we unlocked the back door, regarded the mammoth tree -- growing from the foundation of the house, branches twining with pipes and the cords of the air conditioner -- and went to work.

It took a long time; the tree was young and every cut revealed bright green cellulose. We started with the small branches, carefully removing them from the tree and placing them into a paper lawn bag. From there, we removed the branches which had interweaved themselves with the air conditioner; and then came the thicker, hardier limbs of the tree. Finally, after all that effort, nothing but a six inch high stump was left.

We brought the remnants of the tree to the dumpster and came back, admiring our work. "Good job!" my father said cheerfully, wiping sweat from his face.

"We're not done yet," I informed him. He raised his eyebrows.

Being a rather vicious and vindictive person -- and someone who dislikes doing a job twice -- I went inside, found a bottle of bleach, and doused the motherfucker.

P.S. 60 books & over 20,500 pages read this year; 32 books read since May 5. Sup sluts?
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