I’m A Leaf, And When You Die, I’m Going To Enjoy Watching You Turn Colors!
Hey, you with the Nikon, wipe that look of awe and wonder off your face! Can’t you see I’m dying? A look of sadness and empathy would be more suitable right about now, don’t you think?
Oh God, another charter bus. I just want to be left alone to get my affairs in order. Do my will and decide who gets the acorns I’ve been saving. You hike, bike and drive out here to gawk at my yellow, orange and brilliant red splendor, but you don’t really see me. Some day when they plant you in the dirt, I’m going to enjoy watching your bloated, embalmed ass turn all sorts of pretty colors, too.
Hey, you smoking the cigarette. Yeah, you’ll be where I am before you know it, and then you’ll turn an ever more interesting shade of yellow. I’ll revel in your shimmering golden hues.
Look at that guy with the brushes and easel. What kind of sick mind thinks it’s cool to paint foliage in the process of shuffling off this mortal coil? By the way, that’s the worst landscape painting I’ve ever seen. You gave that barn all the charm of a Super 8 motel. Bob Ross, you ain’t.
Jesus, yo, Ansel Adams with the iPhone, go on, take another artsy-fartsy photo of me. Does your high-resolution camera app offer post-mortem portrait mode?
