When I left you a voicemail asking if you could watch my ferns, and you never got back to me, I assumed your silence meant you had no questions about the intensive two-week care regimen I’d detailed. Well, apparently you had lots of questions. Given the carnage in the apartment, it’s as if you never listened to my voicemail, and spent the past two weeks in blissful ignorance, never knowing the arduous responsibility I had thrust upon you. 

Are you ready for this, my barren rock garden babies? Can you handle it? Well, then let’s go! Shrink your goddamn pupils, mother fuckers -- these savage hues are going to char your cones.