Ilyka has posted a very true post about the wonders of helping plants to die. And she posts with the idea that if only *I*, bfp, were there with her, I could’ve possibly have helped her to *not* kill her plants.

Um. WRONG assertion, Ms. Ilyka.

This is what happens when bfp plants shit, goes through extreme emotional cleansing/mediation for three weeks and then collapses on the couch in pure exhaustion.

Notice how there is no greenery in the holder to speak of? That would be because the “dirt” is actually dirt that I have let bake in the window for so long without supplying any water to, it transformed into sand. I do believe it will become diamonds soon. Which is a wonderful way to make I living, I think. Cook dirt until it becomes diamonds. Much more profitable than local plant hospice.

My other plants are living in spite of me, not because of me–I remembered to ask W* to please for the love of god, give the poor plants some water, because I couldn’t. And he actually did it–so they’re doing ok.

But W* keeps talking about going out to do some “work in the garden” on the weekends. I’m not sure what that means–except the “work” part is throwing me off.

Does he mean he goes out without a shirt on and wrestles with weeds for five hours in the blazing sun and gets all sweaty and and invigorated at which time we do the naughty in my backyard for all to see?

Or does he mean *I* have to have something to do with that “work” part?

I’d rather the shirtless sweaty horny version, myself.

Image I found when I googled naked man in garden. Good Enough For BFP.