Labor day has come and gone. The days will soon get shorter. The nights colder. And I’m ready to fucking die.

I am a leaf. I’ve lived a long, beautiful life. I’ve felt the wind twist and contort my body. I’ve felt drops of rain pelt my face (I do have a face). I’ve absorbed more kinetic energy from the sun over the last 200 days than I ever imagined I would. I am satisfied.

I have friends who want to hold on, to fight and struggle against father time but I for one have no interest in losing everything about me just to get a few extra days on the branch. I want to go out on my terms, not when some deciduous tree decides to release hormones that quicken the separation between my stem and the branch.

I welcome death. I welcome the fall. All the other leaves are constantly talking about “the fall.” “Does it hurt when people walk on you down there? Is it a blinding pain? Feels like it would be if someone just stomped on your entire body, right?” It’s fun to wax on these questions late at night, but deep down the truth is clear: when you fall, that’s it. It’s over. You’re dead.


If I end up in a child’s arts and crafts project after my demise, so be it. If a dog pees on me, so be it. If a dog poops on me, so be it. It matters not. In this country we speak about death in hushed tones as if it isn’t part of life. News flash – death is life. That was kind of a douchey philosophical non-statement but it’s true so get over it.

Before I let go, I do want to leave this piece of advice to future generations, “Dance like nobody’s watching, love like you’ve never been hurt and process sunlight into food using chloroplast like you’re a palm tree located near the equator where you get optimal sunlight.”

Goodbye.

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