The Infamous Leftover Pizza Incident
It all started innocently enough. I was sprawled on the couch, leftover pizza box precariously balanced on my knees, binge-watching a reality TV show I swore I hated. You know the kind—the ones where grown adults fling insults and pasta salad with equal enthusiasm. Suddenly, I noticed it. My peace lily, usually a beacon of verdant serenity, was drooping. Like, dramatically drooping. Its lush leaves were practically kissing the windowsill in despair.
“Did the sun go down already?” I wondered, momentarily forgetting the shame of my current viewing choices. But no, the sun was still shining, casting a judgmental glow on my pizza-crumb-dusted sweatpants. That’s when it hit me—the plant was judging me.
This initial encounter with my plant’s silent judgment sparked a period of intense self-reflection… or at least, it would have if I hadn’t gotten distracted by a particularly captivating Instagram story involving a miniature dachshund and a rogue garden hose.
Days later, I stumbled upon another piece of incriminating evidence. My normally resilient succulent, the one I prided myself on keeping alive (a low bar, I know), was looking a little worse for wear. Its plump, green leaves were starting to shrivel, resembling nothing so much as tiny, deflated balloons.
“Oh, right,” I remembered, a wave of guilt washing over me. “I was supposed to water you, like, a week ago, wasn’t I?” The succulent, or at least, that’s what my guilty conscience imagined, seemed to sigh dramatically.