I killed my cactus
I was never very good with cars. This is sacrilege if you live in Detroit. And I couldn’t find an honest mechanic up here beyond my roommate who only knows how to fix Volkswagens. But I can cook, dammit. Chicks dig cuisine. Not so much Volkswagens, but the New Beetle is worth a glance past my fool kitchen. You know those things come with a vase you can plant a small flower or some weed or whatever? Not that I’ll ever know. Flowers are for sissies. But chicks dig Beetles. Maybe I’d buy one, but rest assured I won’t run a mobile marijuana mart anytime soon. The the entire inventory would die off…
Would you believe I just killed my cactus? I mean, a cactus for Christ’s sake. A fucking cactus. It takes years of talent and skill to rid oneself of a cactus. What’s wrong with me? Am I so inept at rudimentary bachelor botany that I can’t even care for the most unwanton of plants? That prickly thing was my victory garden… and I am defeated.
Come to think of it, I killed a damn fern once. And now I live in Ferndale. How sad. I should be put to sleep. Hey, nobody water me. I don’t deserve hydration.
Why, God, why would you let me kill my cactus? Couldn’t throw me that bone, eh? Am I so engulfed in the livelihood of my clients that the two minutes it takes to walk over to the sink and back is heretic alone? What good is my strategic counsel to Fortune 500 companies if I’m hell-bent on the decimation of cacti? “Well, Dino, your ideas astound us, but quite frankly we can’t trust anyone who is daunted by the simplest of horticultural tasks.” This is by far my lowest moment. My darkest hour.
Who would marry a cactus killer? You tell me.