Everything in my life that I've found funny is useless in comparison to old, drawn out novellas I wrote when I was was 9.

My sister, who decides to call me alot out of the blue, had found some of my notepads full of these stories. She read one out, and seriously, I nearly choked to death from laughing at myself.

A whole series of them is about a talking tree that relies on people to come to him so that he can give them good personal advice, cause you know, he's rooted to the ground.

Seriously, what wasn't I smoking that suddenly made me at least half a sane individual back then?

I must of had a hard case of serious child mental retardation.

Or perhaps, in a way, I was right. Perhaps You have to look for people who looks like trees who can't walk anywhere for good, personal life-altering advice.

Perhaps the fact I never really ended that quest to find that tree has shaped me into the being I am right now...

..nah, I was just a kid with a lack of friends and WAY too much time alone, it seems.