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.