I plan to have a few healthy happy plants this summer. I have what I laughingly call a solarium. I should have some plants.
Unless the black thumb of the Gabby household gets at them. But I'm always willing to try if they are.
Sometimes I can hear them weeping when I approach the nursery with credit card in hand.
I can see them shrinking back, hoping I hate purple flowers, or green leaves.
They are all yelling at each other, run, run, run; but alas; their roots prevent this. They are stuck in their pots. Awaiting their doom.
I take them home, carefully, lovingly. I set them aside gently for repotting first thing in the morning.
Only to arise with the morning sun and discover they made a suicide pact.
They killed themselves in the night. Or killed each other.
Whatever, they're all dead.
And the black thumb has struck again.
They'd rather be dead than at the mercy of the dark killer of the vine.
For, you know, in the nurseries all over the counties, this is what they call me; those doomed plants.
The Dread Dark Death; killer of the vine.
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