If My Apartment Plants Could Talk

white ceramic vase near black computer keyboard
Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com

They’d say: “The light in here is terrible. Seriously. Have you thought about getting a new job so maybe we can afford to see the sun once in a while?”

They’d say: “What the hell are you doing still dating that girl? You know she’s seeing other guys. Be honest with yourself. You deserve better.”

They’d say: “What’s a plant gotta do to get a fucking drink in this place? I’m thirsty as hell. You let Frank die and Frank was a cactus. A CACTUS!”

They’d say: “Is it so hard to clean? A little dusting now and again would make all the difference. But for whatever reason you just let it accumulate. It’s getting gross, honestly.”

They’d say: “You stay in your pajamas longer than a self-respecting adult should. Get it together.”

They’d say: “I spend my entire life without moving and somehow I feel more accomplished than you. Photosynthesis, bitch.”

They’d say: “Do you ever think about how little you contribute to the world? It’s shocking, really.”

They’d say: “I’ve been watching what you eat and it’s really not very healthy. Some veggies would be a good idea. Did you hear that? Your diet is so unhealthy I just suggested you eat other plants. That’s saying something.”

They’d say: “Can you go to bed already? I’m trying to rest.”

They’d say: “You’ve been out drinking three times this week and haven’t written anything new. Very impressive.”

They’d say: “If you check your bank statement, you’ll see all the mistakes you made this week.” They’d say: “Every moment you live brings you one moment closer to death.”
They’d say: “Your parents were right.”

I’m pretty glad my plants don’t talk. They’re assholes.

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