A potato in the ground.

Just another day stuck in this goddamn dirt. Whoop-de-freaking-do. Can’t even see what the hell’s happening above me, just more soil suffocating my lumpy ass. I’m a potato, for crying out loud. I didn’t ask for this bullshit life—rooted in place, surrounded by worms and God knows what else. I mean, seriously, what the actual fuck is the point of my existence? I just sit here, bloating up like a sad sack of carbs, waiting for someone to yank me out. If they ever do.

And let’s talk about these roots. Yeah, they keep me alive or whatever, but holy shit, they’re clingy little bastards. Sucking up every drop of water, desperate for nutrients like some needy fucking plant-parasite. “Oh, feed me, feed me!” Fuck off, roots. Just let me rot in peace. And don’t get me started on the worms. Those wriggling little shits are always slithering around, getting their slimy bodies all over me. Like, what the hell, can I get a little personal space here? Fuckers are probably laughing at me too—“Oh, look at that fat tuber, just sitting there, doing nothing.”

And the goddamn sunlight? What sunlight? I know it’s up there somewhere, but do I get to enjoy it? Nope! Just more dirt. Warm sometimes, cold other times, but always dirt. It’s like being wrapped in a shitty, damp blanket that never lets you breathe. And what’s the endgame here, huh? Am I supposed to just grow until some asshole with a shovel decides it’s harvest time? Then what? Get yanked out, peeled, boiled, mashed, or—oh, joy—fried up into chips for some slob to stuff their face with. Great fucking future.

But no, let’s not rush things. I’ll just keep growing my weird-ass knobby eyes, pretending like I’m okay with it all. Sure, I’ve got layers, I’ve got depth. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still stuck down here, buried in a bunch of filthy dirt. And who the fuck decided that I had to be the staple crop, huh? Carrots get to have pointy ends and look all cool. Even tomatoes, those smug little bastards, get to hang out on vines, seeing the world. Me? No. I’m just here. Waiting.

A blade of grass

Another day of being trampled on by every clueless dipshit with legs. Seriously, what the fuck is it with people? Do I look like a goddamn welcome mat? I'm just here, minding my own business, soaking up the sun, drinking in some water, photosynthesizing like a fucking pro, and BAM—foot, tire, dog piss. It never ends.

Look at me—thin, green, and apparently irresistible to everything that wants to crush or piss on me. Like, wow, thanks nature. You gave me this incredible ability to turn sunlight into energy, but what good is it when half the time I’m getting squashed into the dirt by some inconsiderate prick? Not to mention the lawnmowers, those murder machines. Who the fuck invented those things? It’s bad enough I have to deal with the casual stepping-on from every idiot wandering around, but now I’ve got to watch my friends get decapitated on a regular basis? How is that fair? Fuck me.

Oh, great, a bird. No, by all means, stop by and rip me out of the earth for your shitty nest. Why don’t you just shit on me while you’re at it, huh? Oh wait, they do that too. Goddamn birds. I get it, the world needs nests, but can you pick a different fucking patch for once? Is that too much to ask?

I swear, this is such a thankless existence. And don’t even get me started on the weeds. Yeah, we all see you, creeping up next to me, trying to choke me out. You think I don’t notice you stealing the water? Dick move, man. I’m over here busting my ass just to keep a shred of green going and you’re here like, "Hey, mind if I ruin your day a little more?" Yeah, I mind. Fuck off.

And let’s talk about the sun. Oh, the sun, that big flaming bastard. Yeah, I need it to survive, but then some days it decides to turn into a goddamn microwave, frying me to a crisp. Thanks for that. Really helpful. And don’t think I don’t hear you humans whining about your "dry, dead lawns." Maybe if you didn’t treat us like shit all the time, we’d be a little more green and lush for you, huh? Just a thought.

Ugh, here comes a dog. Please, not again. Not another piss shower. Fuck my life.

Sand on the beach

Another goddamn wave crashing over me. Like, what’s the point, huh? Just when I think I can take a breath—BAM!—saltwater slaps me right in the fucking face. Does anyone ever consider how exhausting this is? Constantly getting shoved around by tides like I’m some disposable piece of debris. It’s a goddamn cycle of torture. You think being sand is relaxing, huh? Just lying here under the sun, minding my business, getting warm and toasty—until some asshole tourist stomps down and embeds me into their sweaty foot cracks. Delightful.

And don’t even get me started on those fucking seagulls. They strut around like they own the joint, shitting wherever they please, and then screeching like it’s a bloody concert. I swear, if I had legs, I’d trip one of those bastards. But no, I’m just a tiny grain of sand. One of the trillions, overlooked, ignored, trampled, drowned—whatever today’s mood is for Mother Nature. Oh, and here’s the kicker, sometimes I get fucking buried. That’s right. By other sand. What kind of existential bullshit is that? I’m just trying to exist, and I’m suffocating under my own kind. The irony is fucking palpable.

And look, now there’s a kid digging nearby. I know how this ends. They scoop me up with their dirty little shovel and toss me into a pail, only to throw me back out like I’m some goddamn disposable toy. No respect. Not even a "thank you" for being part of their pathetic little sandcastle. I swear, being sand is just one never-ending cycle of humiliation. Every day it’s either getting stepped on, pissed on by dogs, or churned around by waves. And don’t even think about the beach parties. Cigarette butts, broken bottles—it’s like being in a war zone without the honour of dying.

But sure, yeah, I’m part of nature’s grand design or whatever. Like I give a shit about that. Planets, erosion, cosmic fucking timelines—who cares? All I know is I’m here, stuck, day in and day out, getting crushed, swept, and forgotten.

Fucking hell.

Wave at the beach

Oh, hell yes, I'm coming in hot today! You ever seen this much energy? No, you haven’t. You landlubber twat. I’m a force of nature, literally, you think you control me? Hah! I’m gonna fuck up your sandcastle, toss your umbrella, and snatch those sunglasses right off your smug-ass face if you’re not careful. I’m rolling, baby!

First, I’m way out there, deep in the sea, chilling, getting all cozy with the currents and tides, swirling like I’ve got nothing better to do. Oh, you didn’t know? That’s right, I don’t just appear by magic, dickhead. I’m born out there, way the fuck back, and I grow, grow with every gust of wind. You ever felt wind? Yeah, it’s cute when it blows your hair a little. When it hits me, though, I swell up. I get big, and I start feeling fucking powerful.

But you’ve got no idea what’s about to hit you. I start building momentum, alright? Like, I’m getting PUMPED. That energy travels from the depths of Poseidon’s watery balls, racing towards your fragile shore, your puny little world of towels, sunscreen, and beach chairs. Oh, you’re trying to stand in me now? Up to your knees? You wanna feel all zen and connected to nature, you fucking amateur? I’ll take those feet right out from under you, smack your ass down in the sand, and drag you back out for another round.

Then there’s that split-second—oh, it’s beautiful—when I crest. Right before I crash, when I’m towering above everything, all foam and fury, salty and wild. I fucking own the horizon. You see me coming, don’t you? The panic in your eyes when you realize you’re nothing but a speck in my path. Glorious.

And then I break. I explode onto the shore. You think it’s random, chaotic? Nah, it’s planned, motherfucker. I know exactly where I’m going, smashing right into the rocks, rushing up the beach, pulling sand and shells back with me, just to mess up your shitty little idea of what "relaxation" looks like. I roar, I crash, I annihilate. And then... I recede.

But I’m not done. No, no. I pull back, but I’m regrouping. I’ll be back, stronger, bigger, with more energy. There’s always another wave. That’s what you never seem to get. I’m relentless. You? You’re temporary, you sand-walking piece of trash. I’ve been here for millennia, and I’m going to keep coming back, crashing, roaring, laughing in your face every time you think you’ve got it all figured out.

I am the ocean, bitch. Keep up.

A snowflake

Tumbling through the goddamn sky like I’ve got any choice in the matter. I swear, every time the temperature drops, I’m dragged out of the comfortable-ass cloud I was chilling in, just minding my own business. And then whoosh — I’m caught in this never-ending free-fall like a helpless little wisp of frozen misery. Not that anyone gives a shit about what I want.

I’m a snowflake. An intricate, one-of-a-kind frozen fuckery of water molecules, forming delicate little spikes and branches that are supposed to be so fucking unique. “Oh, no two snowflakes are the same,” they say. Yeah, well, does that mean I get some special recognition? Some appreciation for being a masterpiece of molecular engineering? Hell no! I get blown around like a goddamn idiot, spiralling through the wind like I’m auditioning for the shittiest Cirque du Soleil knock-off ever imagined.

And don’t even get me started on this whole “beautiful” thing. Yeah, okay, I’ve got six symmetrical arms, and my structure is geometrically perfect. Big fucking deal! All I’m destined for is splattering onto some asshole’s windshield or getting stomped into the dirt by a boot. Maybe I’ll land on a tree branch for half a second, sparkle in the sun like I’m some precious gem, only to melt into a puddle of mediocrity the moment the temperature creeps up a few degrees.

Oh, and let’s talk about my fellow snowflakes. Sure, we all think we’re so special, but newsflash, we’re all just part of the same goddamn snowstorm. Thousands, millions of us, all racing to the ground like lemmings in some frozen kamikaze mission. You think I give a flying fuck about how “unique” I am when I’m about to land on a pile of my identical snowflake buddies? It’s like being an extra in a movie where nobody gives a shit about your lines or even notices you’re there.

And the humans? Don’t get me started on those warm-blooded pricks. Half of them curse our existence, scraping us off their windshields with all the warmth and care of a butcher hacking at frozen meat. The other half are frolicking like we’re some magical gift from nature, catching us on their tongues like we’re a goddamn dessert. Oh yeah, that's what I wanted—to land on a slobbering human tongue, dissolve into spit, and get swallowed into the abyss of some idiot's digestive system.

And then... splat. I’ve finally made it. Landed. What now? I’m a part of the icy ground, waiting to be shovelled aside, melted into the sewer, or turned into dirty slush by some dickhead’s car tire. All this build-up, all this delicate design, just to be part of some cold, soggy mess. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

Unique my frozen ass.

Tiny cloud on a clear blue sky day

Floating around in this endless sea of blue, doing absolutely nothing. Look at me, the tiniest, puffiest, most insignificant speck of fluff in the entire goddamn sky. Just drifting along, like I’ve got nowhere else to be—which, let’s face it, I don’t. I swear, I’m barely a cloud. More like a suggestion of a cloud, a whisper of moisture. I don’t even have enough mass to make a shadow! Not that anyone down there gives a shit. They’re all just squinting up, probably saying, "Oh, what a beautiful, clear day!" Yeah, you’re welcome, you bastards! I’m here working my ass off not turning into a full-on storm, and you don’t even notice me.

I could rain, you know. I could. I’ve got some water up here. Maybe not enough to water your precious garden or ruin your picnic, but damn it, it’s something! I’m one sneeze away from dissipating completely, but do you think I get any credit for holding it together? No. Because I’m just a goddamn accessory to your perfect blue sky.

And don’t even get me started on the bigger clouds. Those assholes with their cumulus confidence, puffing up like they own the place, casting all those nice, cool shadows. And me? I’m just drifting by, trying not to get sucked into the fucking jet stream and thrown halfway across the hemisphere.

Oh, but wait, the sun’s shifting. Yep, I can feel it. I’m starting to heat up, which means I’ll be gone in—what, five minutes? Awesome. I’ve been floating around here for hours, just hoping someone, anyone, might look up and say, “Hey, look at that cute little cloud!” But no. Now I get to evaporate like I never fucking existed. Perfect.

I guess that’s life as a tiny cloud. One minute you're there, the next minute you’re not. Well, fuck it. I’ll show them. One day, I’ll be part of a massive thunderhead. I’ll block out the sun, dump buckets of rain, and you’ll all be soaked to your bones, cursing the skies. And when that happens, you’ll wish you appreciated this little puff of fluff when you had the chance.

But for now? Fine. I’ll just float along. Ignored. Invisible. A microscopic, fluffy piece of fuck-all in this big blue sky. Whatever.

Dust on top of the TV

Just sittin’ here, aren’t we? Yeah, me—just a tiny speck of dust, marooned on top of this goddamn TV. Not that anyone gives a shit about me. Nope, I’m just one of billions—BILLIONS—of microscopic specks, doomed to spend my entire existence in this graveyard of neglect. Stuck on this stupid flat surface where no one ever bothers to clean. How hard is it to grab a fucking rag and wipe me off, huh? But noooo, that’d require someone to notice me!

This fucking TV’s been sitting here for years, the screen flickering on and off with endless episodes of some mind-numbing garbage. I hear it all, feel the little vibrations—like they’re trying to jiggle me to death. But nah, I just cling tighter. I don’t have a choice, do I? No arms, no legs. Just a gritty little fragment, drifting through the air until I land on some electronic graveyard and stick around like an uninvited guest at a party nobody fucking wanted to host.

And let’s not even talk about what’s going on up here, the layer of dust is thick enough to suffocate an ant. If any poor bastard crawled through here, they’d be asphyxiated in seconds. I’m basically part of a goddamn ecosystem at this point, like a fucking civilization of dirt particles, old skin flakes, and I don’t even want to think about what else. Whatever this thing’s been collecting over the years, it’s a goddamn graveyard for household filth.

Occasionally, someone comes in and I’m like, “Finally! Maybe they’ll notice I’m here! Maybe this’ll be the day I get swiped off into oblivion by some sweet microfiber cloth.” But no. What do they do? They dust around the TV, dust the fucking shelves, but do they ever look at me? Of course not. I’m like a ghost in plain sight, stuck to the surface like a piece of forgotten crap no one gives two shits about.

Oh, and don't even get me started on the fucking static. That TV turns on, and it’s like a goddamn magnet. Static electricity pulling more of my dusty brethren up here like it’s some sort of fucking family reunion I never signed up for. Every time it flicks on, I can feel the charge—like a goddamn invisible force just yanking at me, keeping me stuck here. Great, just what I needed, another reason to not be able to fuck off into the wind like a proper dust mote should.

And it’s not like I’ll get a hero’s send-off either. When I do finally get wiped away, what’s my reward? A trip to the vacuum or, if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get blown out the window, only to land on some other forgotten surface and do this whole fucking thing over again. What a life, huh?

Welcome to my goddamn existence. Dust, stuck on top of a TV.