A. Marie Silver

A. Marie Silver

642 Things to Write About: Tell a dying houseplant why it needs to live.

Dear Laverne and Shirley.  You are my favorite ferns of all time.  Ever since I first laid eyes on you at the super center, I knew you were the perfect accessories to my home.

Here we are, three days later and the vibrant green that once occupied your petals/branches/watchamacallits, are now brown and withered. I fear our time together is coming to a close.  Perhaps I should’ve watered you more…or at all.

Please don’t leave me.  If you die, my mother will never allow me to have a pet.

The deal was, keep a plant alive for six months and then I can get a cat.  Keep the cat alive for five years or more and then I can get a dog.  If I can keep the dog alive for five more years and house train it, then, after my mother is dead, I can have sex and conceive a child. (I’m not sure why my mother’s death is a requirement.  You’ll have to ask her.) If you die three days after I purchased you, my mother will never let me get a cat.  I’ll die a brown, withered spinster just like you.

I implore you, Laverne and Shirley, don’t give up.  Pretend I remember to water you.  Pretend I remember to open the curtains up so you can bask in the sunlight.  Pretend I didn’t confuse the bleach water for regular water last night.  (In my defense, I was drunk.)

Show me mercy! Come back to life!


Hopelessly Lacking Green Thumbs.

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A. Marie Smith

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