Why the Sun Hates Me

Once upon a time the sun and I were skipping through a field of peonies, gleeful and gay. We laid down in the middle of the great expanse, and pointed at passing clouds, and remarked on how each resembled former presidents. "Look," I said, "there's Rutherford B. Hayes!" "And there's Warren G. Harding!"

I rolled over and looked at the great star, blazing in its contentment. "What's your middle name?" The sun looked up. "I don't have one. The gods believed Sol was a goodly sufficient name for a yellow star." I laughed and laughed. "You silly heavenly body! EVERYONE has a middle name!"

All of a sudden the sun jumped up and stomped away, crushing flowers without thought for their delicate stems, their soft velvety petals. "What's wrong, Solly?" I called after him, but all I heard was "you ruined it. You wrecked it all, fucker."

I laid down again in the soft grass. Later, when I opened my eyes, carefully, painfully. That stupid asshole had left me with angry red burns, from my head to my toes. So he can go fuck himself.