Confession of a Serial Plant Killer
Repotted Post from the Cellar.
This is the third day of my incarceration at a maximum-security garden center.
The florist glares at me from behind a bouquet of roses armed with tiny Samurai spikes. And she thinks I’m the dangerous one. I think we’re both the same, but she’d disagree. She cuts off the stems of. I cut off their heads. They look better that way.