Always I have hugged trees. Even as a small child I hugged them – all varieties mind – for there is nothing like communing with nature in my book. My parents thought me odd in this regard. Pater would often say to me, ‘Jessica you really do get on my tits with all that bloody tree hugging you know – now go and play in the road darling.’ We lived only a short distance from the M25 motorway at the time. Mater called me an insipid, wearisome dullard with alarming regularity until the day she inserted and Super-glued things called butt plugs into both ears so she would never have to hear my utterances any longer – that is until she also poked both her eyes out with a sharp stick so as to avoid looking at me. And then the final straw came when pater took a chain saw to all the trees in our garden. I was bereft I can tell you. Still that event prompted me to leave home and get a job as a trainee tree surgeon. It was there that I met Keith, the love of my life. However, after 6 years of courtship and what with him constantly begging to, as he put it, ‘get his leg across – I’ll even take you trunk side if you so desire’ our relationship faltered then collapsed. I was near suicidal when he left. It was then I turned to writing poetry by way of a therapy of sort. I recently wrote a verse regarding my experiences on Facebook that I will now share with you.
The snap of the cake I posted
For my Facebook friends to see
Got such a poor reception
It will be the death of me
Sammy wrote that it was crap
And Alice commented ‘shit’
John clicked ‘like’ on Alice
And said for eating it was unfit
That he wouldn’t feed it to his dogs
Or even his mother-in-law
And added rather hurtfully
That I was a fucking bore
And as for the photo of my Nan
I thought it nice to share
Yet my bestest friend named Jenny
Said she would suit the electric chair
And then there was my selfie
Which I thought made me look nice
Yet my Aunt Maud did message me
And passed on her advice
She told me to go get a life
In a place that’s far from here
Or it would be even better still
If I could just disappear
Why can I never find love?
What have I done to irk people thus?
And why is that even the local vicar
Wished to see me run over by a bus?
My dilemma persists so I’ve decided again to attempt to end it all – this will be my 48th attempt! I’ve read somewhere that a cocktail of birth control pills and steroids is a guaranteed passport to a better place. Odd concoction if you think about it yet I found it on the ‘Bearded Lady’s’ blog so I feel sure it is OK – just off for a final tree hug. I am minded to seek out a sycamore I think.