Dead Thumb

This, I believe, is the seventh plant I have killed since I moved into my apartment a year and a half ago. This one was a gift from a friend who had a beautiful, thriving rubber tree plant. She'd had to cut it back and was giving out shoots so that others could start their own. She gave one to me. This is what remains. It survived three months in my tender care. There is some green at the top, so you know, there is that.

I have a great desire for there to be something living, either than myself, in my apartment, but I don't appear to sustain any other life there but my own. In fairness to myself, I do have one green plant that isn't dead quite yet. But I am not resting too much hope on it. I water, I don't water, I sun, I don't sun. I look for plants that don't require sun, considering the lack of it in my home. Plants that are labeled for the exact conditions in which I live. And shortly there after, they are croaksville. I had one plant which sizzled when you added water. Like the sound that you hear when you add milk to Rice Krispies. It was all spikey and I had named it Clay on account of its leaves looking like his hair when he was fancied up on the American Idol. So I even did the chatting thing with the blasted things and they still bit it.

I have some fake plants, but that just isn't the same. THERE SHOULD BE ACTUAL LIFE, carried by loving hands, not my dead thumb. I hope no horticultural society comes after me for my many kills. None of them were intentional. Maybe I could plead my case in the presence of a kind judge, who also can grow nothing but mold and dirt in empty pots. Surely someone understands.