Herbicidal Maniac

I’m writing to confess that I am a serial plant killer. It’s not that I want to be, but something inside me is broken. I’m making no renovations. I rather like being broke, it gives me a false sense of personality.

When I went to college, my mother bought me a cactus as a companion because she knew I had difficulty making friends, and I killed it – I don’t mean I killed it, as in I really performed amazingly, but killed it as in I made something dead. I had even put the little guy in front of the TV so I wouldn’t forget about it. That worked, to a degree. I’d see it and think ‘I should water that.’ Then I wouldn’t because I would do something else. Even when I saw it began to fade, I supposed my dorm room still had to be more succulent than a desert. It wasn’t. I feel that was a metaphor for something.

Only when I was about to move out at the end of the semester did I throw my sad dead cactus out. I wonder if that constituted torture. I wonder if people will protest me.

I always feel weird about throwing out my dead plants. Sometimes I like to walk them to the local park and place them gently on the ground. I believe, however, I am mocking them by planting them too late in an environment resplendent with the life that I denied them. I also get nervous the trees will come to life and demand justice. They might accept my dog as a surrogate, seeing as how he pees on them with his noxious stream.

Sometimes I’m also afraid that things will crawl out of my television. That’s because I’ve seen The Ring.

I once bought a flower. I thought that it was very pretty. For a few weeks it was going strong. Then it stopped. I watered him, I talked to him, I played Mariah Carey for him; I even bought him a friend. I believe it became a murder/suicide pact because I came home one day to find one plant swinging from the rafters while the other’s stem was slit. I threw them both in the garbage because they betrayed me. I shared my heart with you, flower! Alas, my secrets died with him.

Perhaps it was my life that killed him. Perhaps he simply couldn’t handle it. I haven’t caused an ex to commit suicide yet, but I’m certain that I’ve made them contemplate it. I’m an excellent girlfriend. I do nice things.

Did you know that you have to repot plants? I didn’t.

When I was a little girl I cultivated a sweet pea. Finally it grew large enough to be planted in the ground. A fucking gopher ate it. I raised that flower since it had been nothing but a seed: I barely got to experience the joy of watching it bloom in the garden. After I dried my tears, I hunted the gopher with a shovel. I never found him. It’s hard to hunt things that burrow underground. Instead I bashed my little brother’s bike in. That’s when I learned how you can make yourself feel better by destroying some else’s life. Tears are my sunshine.

I once made a person cry only using my words. They’re lighter than a shovel, but not metaphorically.

I asked my mother many years ago (she’s dead now) if plastic flowers came from plastic seeds. My mother informed me that sometimes you can ask dumb questions.

My perfect plant is the one that lives in a pipe and spews fireballs at people from Mario Brothers (because of poor foresight his name is Mario Mario). I’d name my plant Harold Harold. What’s important if you’re an herbicidal maniac: your plant must too like to kill. From two things that take life, life blooms. That’s called a double negative.

I wouldn’t want that plant from Little Shop because he seems like a pretentious asshole.

I fear that my inability to sustain plant life shows that I have no love in my heart to cultivate a meaningful and lasting relationship. Joke. That’s some bullshit from the TV and pop culture. My biggest fear is actually airplanes, more specifically being on an airplane that crashes or having an airplane crash on me.

I, in fact, have several meaningful relationships: 1) my dog, Brutus. I know that he will devour my corpse should I die alone, leaving the world to wonder ‘what happened to Becky?’ He’s my cuddle bunny. 2) My roommate, Foxy Lady. I have no words for my emotional attachment to this woman. If only one day it might be physical as well. Why do you deny our forbidden love, Foxy? Why? 3) My reflection. I like it and it says witty things to me. And she rarely judges, but only when I deserve it. 4) why does a person need more than 3?

Instead of inviting a superficial guilt into my life, I now only buy pre-murdered plants. And one day a bouquet of dead flowers will win my Foxy’s heart. I’ll keep you updated.

And just like a plant too long exposed to the bleakness of my life, I will let this post wilt away into nothing.



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