I speak for the trees, and I've wronged them a lot.
I've been kind when it's easy and cruel when it's not.
Both of those facts are as true as can be —
and I'm done letting one of them speak for me.
You did something small that the planet will pay: a flight, a delivery, a thing thrown away that worked perfectly well on its very last day.
The guilt lasts four seconds. You sweep it from sight, straight under the bed in the dead of the night, where nobody sees it — and that feels all right.
It stays. And it feeds on the rest of the pile. It grows a big mouth and a terrible smile. It gets big enough to have thoughts about you. That's me. How d'you do. I am long overdue.
A monster you're brave enough to name
is just a habit by another name.
Say the worst one. Not one you'd defend. The one with no reason, no story, no friend.
I am the Lorax, I should speak for the trees. I could not do it.
I flew four hours to a wedding and four hours back, in one weekend.
I own eleven tote bags. I bought nine of them.
One pack of batteries arrived in a box the size of a microwave. I kept ordering.
I googled “is recycling actually real” and stopped reading at the second paragraph.
I left the tap running while I thought of something to say.
Not Good Lorax. Good is a lie, and by Thursday you'd catch me, so I shan't even try. Better is one habit, changed badly, out loud. Pick one. Do it poorly. I'll still be proud.
Speak for the trees.
Speak badly. Speak loud.
Start with yourself,
and then start with the crowd.