Of Flora and Fatalism

Gladys (in the bowl on the left) and Darnell swim beneath

the skeletal remains of our once proud house plant.

One of the standing orders Briana left me was to take good care of our modest plant collection. I would have stood a better chance had she told me to grow a second dick while she was away. And, let's face it, I'd have fun trying. And there'd be minimal repotting.

Mine is not a green thumb.

This is not for lack of trying. In fact, I have to remind myself not to over-water the plants. I prune, I pamper, I feed them exotic plant foods whilst singing smooth jazz standards to them. In turn, the plants stay awake at night trying to set themselves on fire rather than spend one more day in my care.

If vegetation can scowl, this plant is almost certainly doing so. It looks like we planted the fucking thing upside-down.

Now, animals I'm cool with. Those fish love me, and eat freeze-dried bloodworms from my hands. Even cats, which I loathe, love nothing more than to lay atop me all day enjoying the gentle rhythm of my breathing, siliently plotting the deaths of all things decent and holy. If the cat happens to belong to Ingrid, there's a good chance that said cat feels sufficiently comfortable in my presence to sleep on my chest with its twisted little ass resting mere inches from my chin.

So what the eff am I doing to these plants? Something is clearly very, very wrong. I fear that if someone ever introduces me to a dog named "Fern," I'll pet it and it will instantly develop heartworm and bolt for the nearest interstate.

Briana, come home soon, and kindly ignore the dead leaves strewn about the kitchen floor.