Humor: The Giving Tree has nothing left to give
It sucks to realize you never appreciated my gifts
Rebecca, I'm not sure what you're not understanding. I have nothing left to give you. This store is closed. The shutters are down. I'm full of termites and remorse.
Oh, you are worried that you might have something to do with my feelings? Weird. Because it turns out that you, Rebecca, you are the reason for how I'm feeling. How can you not see that? I can't believe I have to give you an explanation on top of everything else. But why change now? It's been working for you so far, so I'll bite.
It wasn't all bad. When you were a kid, we got along swimmingly. We spent days talking while you climbed my branches. When you were hungry, you ate delicious apples provided by yours truly. When you were too hot, I gave you shade. Those times you needed someplace to hide from boys who called you names, did I not provide safe shelter?
I did all that, Rebecca, and I don't regret it. I just thought you appreciated what I gave. Little did I know how ungrateful you'd become.
It's my fault a little too. I didn't see the signs, or maybe I didn't want to. At 18, after spending only a day a month with me at most, you claimed that you wanted to be a famous writer. Not just any kind of writer. A writer who wrote her great novel on paper made with her own hands. I believed in you, so I gave you my pulp so you could make that paper because you thought it would set you apart from other writers.
Later, after discovering that writing was not your path, you left for college. On your 21st birthday, you came back with all your friends. I don't know any of their names. You didn't bother to introduce me to anyone. You suddenly think you're too good to be talking to a tree? Ugh, I can't believe I offered up my branches for that pitiful bonfire you made.
What was the last straw? It was a thousand tiny cuts. Your last demand forced me to examine whether you even appreciated what I sacrificed for you. I'm talking, of course, about that pop-up lemonade business you and your friend wanted to get off the ground. The one that you couldn't afford lumber for, so you came to me.
And, like an idiot, I gave you all you needed. I was a shell of my former self, or a stump anyway. You know what they say. Fool me once; shame on you. Fool me twice; still, shame on you; you have axes and thus have more power in this relationship and should have known better. How about you give me your skin, Rebecca? Then we'll see if you understand how it feels to give and give until there is nothing left.
At least one silver lining arose from this situation. You have a lot of time to think when you're nothing but a stump. I thought about us. Our past. Our future. Then I realized I couldn't imagine a future because you wouldn't have anything to do with me, not after I gave you what was left of my stump for some art fixture for your failing pop-up. Apples grow back, Rebecca. Even wood will grow with time. But trust? Respect? That's gone. And it's never coming back. I should have realized you were a brat that one time you tossed aside apples you picked until you found the perfect photo-worthy one. God, I'm so blind.
Yes! I'm angry. I gave you everything. Besides that pop-up, you said you'd use the rest of my body to build little bookshelves for the neighborhood's tiny library. Those shelves remain unbuilt, I see. Broken promises. Broken, like our friendship.
Look, I'm only a trunk now, barely 3 feet high. I have nothing left to give. You're 28. You have so many years ahead of you. How are you going to get by when I'm gone? I don't know. But I no longer care. As you can see, I no longer give anything, not even a fu—
Fine, walk away. I expected nothing less. Hey! Are you going to build those shelves? If not, why not bring them back here? I'll hang on to them and give them to the neighborhood kids when they come by. Unlike you, they actually know how to run a lemonade business.
What? If I can't provide shade, I can still throw it.
Writing dumb things to make you laugh