By:  A Diag Tree

Seriously, guys? All I wanted was to wake up from a nice, long winter dormancy without finding a bunch of natural- fiber-wearing monkeys climbing all over me. But no, the first day of spring rolls around, and you guys show up hell-bent on turning me into some kind of stoner jungle gym.

Look, I’m no pussy willow. I’ve taken my fair share of hits from incompetent Frisbee throwers and careless groundskeepers who never should have been allowed near a ridea- mower in the first place. But do you even understand all the shit I have to put up with on a daily basis?

For starters, I’m practically a hotel for squirrels, who – let’s not forget – survive by eating my fucking offspring. That’s right. I involuntarily house the murderers of my own children. I think it’s pretty clear I don’t need any more squatters. To add insult to injury, some of you people apparently think I look like a really convenient urinal at 3 a.m. I swear, some days I wish a bolt of lightning would just put me out my misery. And now I can’t even sit back, relax, and get some sun on my leaves without you longhaired commies stringing me up to another tree just so you can live out your Cirque du Soleil fantasies – or whatever the hell the purpose of slacklining is.

And don’t even get me started on hammocks. Can’t you people build your liberal love nests at your co-ops or something? The last thing I want to see on a sunny day is a writhing mass of dreadlocks and hemp bracelets. When I was just a sapling, we had respectable men like Rutherford B. Hayes in the White House and a country to rebuild. There was no time for lollygagging around in hammocks all day. Get a job, you dirty hippies.

And you can keep your hugs – I want my personal space back.