Eugene O'Neill describing the trees in Desire Under the Elms:

"They are like exhausted women resting their sagging breasts and hands and hair on its roof, and when it rains their tears trickle down monotonously and rot on the shingles."

Uh, okay, dude. Now explain the squirrels.

See, this is why I don't like symbolism: most comparisons just don't make sense. Do kites get caught up in the limbs of old ladies? Do trees scream at you in Italian when you forget to pull your zipper up?

That little passage makes Mr. O'Neill sound misogynistic as well. I mean, you know you're a wreck when you have to prop up your tits. And I thought the chicks on Millionaire Matchmaker were disgusting. They're golddiggers with fake boobs and no brains, sure, but your shingles are probably safe.

You'd never catch O'Neill comparing trees to dudes.

"They are like exhausted men resting their sagging penises on a coffee table, too thin and white to even be mistaken for Virginia Slims."

Still, it's this "desire" thing that totally loses me. It reminds me of Tennessee Williams' work: arguing and fucking, arguing and fucking. If depression and anger were even remotely erotic, I'd take my dates to Ikea. I'm picturing O'Neill's play going something like this:

INTENSE MAN: "Do you hear that? The incessant drip of rain, like the tears of your mama. And look! Those branches look like wrinkled, sagging boobs. Come slide over next to me, under the blotchy nipple."

INTENSE WOMAN: "I thought you'd never ask. Watching those shingles rot has awakened something deep inside me. (PAUSE) Sweetie, why are you holding the popcorn over your groin?"