The Eyewitness Testimony of a Wilting Peace Lily
Let me preface this by saying I consider myself a relatively responsible adult. I pay my bills on time (most of the time), I call my mother regularly (okay, semi-regularly), and I haven’t burned ramen noodles in at least a month. Yet, here I stand, accused by the silent judgment of a leafy green jury of one: my peace lily, Ferdinand.
It all started subtly. Ferdinand, usually a vibrant picture of, well, peace and lily-ness, started to droop. At first, I brushed it off. “He’s just dramatic,” I told myself, misting his leaves with a nonchalance I didn’t entirely feel. But then the drooping escalated to a full-blown wilt. His once perky leaves now resembled sad, green tears.
It was then, in the quiet solitude of my living room, that it hit me: Ferdinand wasn’t just sad, he was judging me. Every wilted leaf, every brown spot, was a silent indictment of my life choices.
- That pile of laundry I’d been meaning to wash for a week? Judgment.
- The leftover takeout containers cluttering the counter? Silent disapproval.
- The fact that I hadn’t called my mother back? Oh, he knew.
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