by Kelsey Liu.
Every year the planet falls in and out of love with itself.
It starts with spring, like it always does. The Earth gives itself flowers every day in hopes of winning its heart: roses, lilies, even petunias. It gets constantly rejected by coy frosts, but perseveres by making the trees bud green, symbols of its growing affection. Everything heats up. The Earth instructs birds to sing love songs day and night in hopes that, if nothing else, it can plain old annoy itself into submission.
Heat swells into summer. The Earth gives into a blissful state of lust, seduced by the brilliance of the sun and the tanned legs of teenage girls and, somewhat unfortunately, some teenage boys. It transforms cars into sex rooms and electrifies the air. It throws parties for its lover in the depths of a turbulent sea. It goes out on dates to kick waves at each other. The Earth never fights with itself; it lives for months enveloped in a perfect fire of narcissism. Every day, aiming to impress, it turns new sparkling waters and waving trees. It can’t get enough of itself in this intoxicated high, so every day it takes the longest walk possible, smudging a belt of heat all around the equator.
Sometime in August, the planet is violently shocked by how dirty its beaches have gotten. It discovers the sloppiness of its lover, its secret slums, its dirty habit of throwing laundry on the bedroom floor and never washing it. In a heartbreaking spiral, the world sees more and more of the dark side: the way cheap Styrofoam meals have replaced the homemade dinners on plates, the way it doesn’t even bother to even try to hide its nose-picking during after-dinner television time, and especially the way its once fresh, dewy skin has turned black. Repulsed, it starts fighting, and things get worse and worse . . . The affection cools, the sex leaks out of the air, and noses start getting nipped.
The Earth lets the leaves of trees, monuments from their first months of puppy-eyed love, fall into shades of bruised orange, angry red, brittle yellow from tender green. The oceans grow cold without early morning orgies. Because the Earth is immature, it makes everyone suffer along. People start shivering. They have to cover up their legs, once so instrumental in seduction; the planet is unable to handle being reminded of happier days. It gets so angry by the end of October it offers up the entirety of a vegetable species for gutting and carving, forcing pumpkins to stand as grossly grinning lanterns for an entire night dedicated to horror and pretense.
It finally breaks—the dreaded, tearful, dramatic explosion of pent-up disgust. The first snow is soft, soft because the shock hasn’t worn off yet. Soon enough though, winds of righteous outrage do their best to cut the clothes right off a body. The Earth seals up under a layer of ice. It turns its nose up at its former lover, determined to act sophisticated. The trees are completely barren; the Earth made sure to strip them off, ripping apart the reminders of a warm courtship that meant so well. It hates children with an intensity beyond belief when they snuggle up with blankets and hot chocolate.
But on a certain day in December, it always manages to somehow mysteriously bump into itself at its favorite pie store. Surprised by the lovely rendezvous, it sits down with a slice of apple and one of strawberry jam mix, catches up, laughs, and that day, children get presents. It looked so good in that red coat and polished black hair; the Earth can’t stop thinking about the chance date. One day in February, it sees itself with a scarf that makes its blue eyes pop, and it can’t fight it—
Hopelessly, predictably, it instantly falls in love again.