I had a conversation with my friend Jol the other day. I said that if I was a Pokemon my score card (you know, the ones that had all the statistics and kids used to exchange and somehow stage fights with, sometime in the early 00s), my two signature moves would be: panic gardening at 10 pm and panic face-waxing at 8 am.
I don’t know why I do this. I get home from work, relax, talk to friends, watch a series (cause my current lifestyle has rendered me incapable of reading any books) and then, out of the blue, I just have to go to my balcony, inspect my plants and proceed to garden the night away. I suddenly decide to repot plants that I bought months ago and never bothered, somehow believing that they will not survive another day in their tiny, constricting pots*.
But when they wither and they are nothing but twigs, I am at a loss. Momentarily, because of grief and because I can’t let go of things. But mostly because I don’t know how to dispose of the body. What do I do? Cut it in little pieces and let the wind take it? Viking funeral pyre? It seems unfair to just put it in a bag and throw it in the garbage. Not after what it’s been through.
And here’s where I think I may have turned them paranoid (much like me). See, when they die, and I don’t know how to dispose of the body, I just leave it there for weeks. Over time they turn into tiny crumbly toothpicks, bent to the will of the winds.
But here is where the magic (and paranoia) happens. I think that the other plants take this as an example. Their peer, lying there, lifeless, punished for not being glorious enough. Much like Crowley in Good Omens, I think my incompetence in dealing with plant death blackmails them and makes them fight for their existence.
After a few weeks I just shove the plant in a trash bag and they never see it again.
As for panic waxing, need I really dwell on it?
*Oh, they will. Somehow the plants I get come to terms with their limbo state pretty soon and are forced to adapt in order to survive. They have to patiently sit there, let me water them whenever I may please and try to survive. When they wither, they are dead to me. And this is not because of my indifference,** I want to believe.
**I water them and give them a special medicine. The problem is that I do it irregularly. I overcare and then I care not. I drown them in medicine, to the point they suffer from poisoning. I give them iron (a disgusting powder that turns water crimson red and makes your balcony like the Red Wedding just happened) and then I let the rotten leaves drown them.