I love sunflowers. Some day, that magical Otherday, I want enormous sunflower plants with blooms as big as my head full of seeds in my yard. Somewhere between the Thorny Locust tree and the one with the pink flowers.
Every time I look at this sunflower head, I feel aggressive. (That is, "marked by bold determination and readiness for conflict") I've thought about eatting it. I've thought about tearing it to pieces with my bare hands. I've thought about wood chippers and sword-chucks and garbage disposals and buying a new lighter to burn each petal away.
One day, people will look back on this entry and say I wrote it with a reason. A purpose. An agenda, perhaps. And I will say, "I wrote it because I hated that fucking sunflower head."