Lost the war, concede the battle, win a small victory

The Shade-o-riffic tree is laden with a thick transparent coat of ice and a fresh blanket of snow, the weight of both forces the branches southward.
As I sit on the middle cushion of my big-ugly-comfy couch, blanket wrapped around my knees and feet, holding the over-sized powder blue coffee mug steaming with a freshly poured cup of heavily creamed coffee, I stare. I stare at the branches through my patio doors and will the wind to blow harder. I murmur my secret evil chant to the Global Gods, “blow, wind, blow.” Hoping against all hope that these words will reach up to the snowy, blustery, heavens and the power of my will combined with the powers of my subconscious will make the heavy branches come crashing down to the ground and I will win a small victory against the
Shade-o-riffic tree.
Fall.
Stare longer.
Will the braches to come tumbling down.
See it.
Will it.
Want it.
If I want something bad enough, I need to see it, envision it, isn’t that what all those psycho-babble Oprah-sheep are always espousing? See it, want it, will it.
Wait, am I supposed to write it down? Is “write it down” one of the things they “bah” about?

In my tunnel-vision determination to bring the tree to a shattering cold death, I realize I am missing a crucial step. I place the powder blue coffee mug on a coaster and I search my crappy apartment for a pen and a piece of paper. In my search I wonder if this is how it started for Jack Torrance. How soon did he go crazy after he and his family moved into the Overlook Hotel? How soon? With the vision of “Heeeeere’s, Johnny!” crashing through my door; the crazy one, not Carson, the word “redrum” pours scarlet in my mind. With shock and horror at what I’ve become, a tree hating grad student, I abruptly stop scribbling my missing affirmation on the shredded cover of last semester's environmental public policy book where the crucial words of "wanted dead, not alive," the last step needed to finish my crucifying bullet, falls harmlessly to the floor. I let out a sad, short, disgusted whimper of shame as I shake my head and lower my gaze to the living room carpet where I notice a few lonely speaks of salt and sand combined with several small balls of black sweatshirt fuzz and I realize that in my all consuming one woman staring contest, it has been awhile since I last vacuumed.

I decide that it is time to concede my battle with the Shade-o-riffic tree. It has obviously been here longer than I and it will be here long after I leave, this is victory enough. I raise my coffee mug in a salute and shout, “Live on, you stupid humongous tree! Live on!”

Moments later I dump the corpse of the .5 houseplant into the garbage and change yet another burned-out light bulb in a vain attempt to brighten my perpetually dusk apartment. During the houseplant burial ceremony I vow to kill trees in another more vigorously sinister way; with the printing of research.