i hate burrs

If someone asked me how I felt about burrs, I would say I don't like them. If you asked me on a deeper level, I would tell you they are the bottom feeders of the botanical world, clinging to anything with a pulse, shameless in their desperation. It’s as if they were designed to be the parasites of the plant kingdom, ugly fuckin hitchhikers just looking for a free ride. They’re nature’s leeches—small, vicious, and relentless, clutching onto skin, fabric, or anything remotely alive, like some unholy union between barbed wire and sea urchins.

Burrs don't just grow—they infest. Their sole purpose seems to be to irritate, annoy, to latch on and never let go, like nature’s most stubborn guests who overstay their welcome by centuries. I fucking hate them. You see them, spiny and smug, lying in wait like they’ve got nothing better to do. Their tenacity isn’t admirable—it’s revolting. They thrive in their ugliness, these little shits, the abominations of the world.

No one invited them. No one ever does. What even eats burrs? Do they have a purpose?? Yet there they are, hooked into you, demanding your attention for an hour as you pick them off. Don't worry, they don't come off in clumbs, they leave behind a footprint that if you can't see, you'll feel. You'll feel the little needles stuck in the back of your neck as you put your backpack on, behind your knee as you try to escape this hell hole, and on your shoulders as you have a shower trying to get rid of the feeling. You never escape.

And there’s nothing delicate about them. No grace. Just this grotesque, sticky determination to survive at any cost.

If someone burnt down that barn to get rid of the burrs, they did the right thing. If the past owners moved away to get away from these burrs, they did the right thing. Never in my life have I seen a place so infested with these little fuckers.

I HATE BURRS.

While occupied with these bastards, grasping at them to pry away from my skin and clothes, I hung my camera on a tree branch. The burrs were so bad I swapped shirts with one I had in my bag, while contemplating burning the old one. I walked away infuriated, somehow leaving my camera behind.

It wasn't until I logged on here to upload photos from todays disaster that I learned I wasn't sure where my camera actually was. After some pondering and self-hatred, I realized exactly where it was. Thus began a mission in the dark, first driving the 45 minutes, then walking the half kilometer in the bushes. The burrs attacked me again, though this time I knew better.

Eventually, I found my camera exactly where I left it. I present to you, a mediocore at best, abandoned farm. Unworthy of an interior photo, with the roof almost having the same fate as the deck, I wouldn't trust it. I wouldn't trust anything about this place.

shot on a Coolpix S220, with supplementary photos from an iPhone