I’m a murderer.
It’s happened more than once.
Drowning. Dehydration. Burning in the sun. Lack of nutrition. Improper care. Being run over…
Yes, these have all happened at my doing. Some are happening now as we speak.
Put down the phone. Yes, hang up.
I kill plants.
When I buy new plants I feel guilt. I know they are coming to my house to die. I try not to let my emotions show. I smile and whistle while I dig holes and plop them in the ground. I pretend to know what I’m doing by adding soil and watering.
But they die.
Maybe it’s because I HATE gardening. They can smell my distain and lose their will to live.
Maybe it’s because I hate digging. I really scoff at the directions that say dig a whole twice as deep and tall as the root ball. Really? Doesn’t that seem like a lot of extra work to you people? Don’t you have roots and rocks in your hard clay-like soil too? I’m not breaking my back over a hole any bigger than is needed to shove the things in and… Oh, yes, see, they die.
It’s a good thing that I’m not a grave digger by trade. Now that we all know I would barely dig a hole big enough to fit a body. There’d be fingers and a nose sticking out for sure. I’d just have to plant flowers and bushes around the body to hide it… but then they would die… and it wouldn’t help.
I should not blog on lack of sleep. I should stick to coffee and reruns of Tosh.0.
My latest victims… I imagine their little voices crying, “Help us. Someone, please, save us!”