Well, I murdered again.
Sigh.
“Shrugs. Shouldn’t’a worn my bad-luck gardening gloves.”
Seriously. Since I can’t keep anything that can’t bark alive, it’s a good thing I haven’t started my vegetable garden yet. ‘cause I STILL can’t manage to keep an effing house plant. Thus far, I think my best record’s probably been a week.
And by a week, I mean a day and a half.
Poor bastards. My mom lovingly brings them into my humble home with her lovely green thumb. And they all think they’re going to get the best photosynthetic foster care.
Truly, I tried my hardest this time. But it ended up something like this:
1. Receive hibiscus gift from mummy.
2. Next Morning: Notice plant’s dying of dehydration.
3. Reluctantly water it, wondering why it can’t just live off the loving words and water I fed it yesterday.
(I never noticed, but the hose wasn’t meant to be punishment. He just wanted her skin supple for frock-making later.
That’s a thought.
While Bill tucks for two-lips, I’ll sew dead tulips into tube dresses that barely cover my real ones.
Moving on.)
4. That Night: Too much water. Plant must dry. Place under A/C draft.
5. Wake at 3 A.M.: Get water (for myself). Wonder why plant looks like this:
6. 3:05 A.M.: Go back to bed after laughing at plant and doing nothing to save it.
7. Next Morning: Wonder if my potted celery stalks will grow new petals.
In my defense, houseplants that don’t grow something that’ll delight my taste buds later – are useless. They can’t play fetch. They can’t adorably scratch their backs on the carpet. They can’t do tricks.
And, most importantly, can’t stare at me in adoration when all the people who should be, aren’t.
As a comparison: I like walking outside, but I hate when my jaunty gait gets punctuated by pauses for somebody else’s bodily functions. Especially a shih-tzu who rations out piss and shit for the perfect spot.
“Can’t crap here. This is cat country…”
That said, I’d rather deal with Fur and Loathing dog walks twelve times a day than water a something once that absolutely refuses to exuberantly dance in celebratory circles upon the return of their Queen.
And like a Queen Mary, when my needs aren’t met and I’m met with their chloroplastic expression, well.
You know the story.
Maybe I’m just forgetful.
Or maybe it is subconscious hibiscus homicide I’m committing out of suspicion.
I mean, there’s always a part of me wondering what plots that potted prick is quietly devising before I finally slay it in its own soil.
I saw The Happening.
I know how the story goes.
(I always assumed that the grass gas attacked this guy ’cause he was cutting it.)
So, the rule is: if you’re not going to repay me in abject adulation with wagging appendages and the twinkling gaze of a raver on ecstasy, you’d better at least bloom a bit of bite sized veges. Otherwise you can expect naught from me but an expedited expiration.
After all, if I’d wanted to care for a selfish creature, I’d have cloned myself.
Or gotten a cat.
Both of which would also be dead by now.