pray for me now in the hour of my death, which i hope is soon. amen.

There are too many of them. Just, too many. Standing there, pretentiously, unmoved by the power of time – they are praised and idolized by so many, especially in this time when their colors are most vibrant. The hugest peacocks I have ever seen. Ruffling their feathers to impress me. ME? WHY ME! They are so monumental, even an archetypical symbol for life and growth, who can compete with that? Who hates the symbol for life? Well. It is the opposite of what you might think, I think. But I do. I only do when one of them says to another, “hey there, you sexy thang.” I only hate them when they start to make love. Sweet, sweet once-a-year love. With a frequency like that, you must only expect this mammoth to mammoth intercourse-fest to be so overbearing that it would be famous across the nation. In fact it is, so famous, that we have named a whole season after its obscene beauty.

Spring.

There are so many of them, and this for me, is overwhelming. Because. I can feel their sex. They are the roommate, on the top bunk, having sex on top of me. They are sexing me in my eyes. Their sex is in my nose. So inconsiderate. Pretentious assholes. Like they can just sex anywhere they want – but the truth is. They can. And they do. And they are.  I have a super power. I have the super power of heightened sense and sensitivity to tiny things like tree sperm.  

I am a sad, sad, little man. 

-Jackson