My houseplants look like they just survived a betrayal, all because my brain entirely deleted the task "water the green things" from its hard drive for three consecutive weeks.
Now, my once-vibrant pothos is draped over the bookshelf like a Victorian poet fainting from a lack of inspiration, its leaves crispier than a fresh bag of potato chips.
The soil in the monstera pot has shrunk into a solid, hydrophobic brick that actively repels liquid, meaning my frantic rescue attempt resulted in water immediately pooling on top like a sad, miniature lake before flooding the hardwood floor.
It is a truly humbling experience to look a peace lily in its limp, entirely deflated face and realise that your inability to maintain a basic hydration schedule has turned a thriving indoor jungle into a crunchy, low-tempered graveyard.
Fuck.
Dane.
