I am less nurturing than a death camp

Because plants survive even in death camps, but not in my apartment. Remember those self-watering planters Devon made awhile back? Well, the thyme started to die almost immediately. The basil lasted a little longer — until we went to Colorado and forgot to refill the reservoir.

Seriously, dudes, all I have to do is remember to fill this tiny container with water every couple of weeks. I suck so hard. But at least the pasta sauce had some extra kick that night. That's what happens if you have the nerve to die in my apartment: I'll eat you.

The only reason we've been able to keep the pets alive is because, when the food or water bowl is empty, they have the decency to let us know. Fitz flips her bowl over in a snit, and the cats stare at the bowl equal parts mournful and peeved, like, "Bitch, please, I can't believe I even let you live here."

If only the plants could speak. But that might be worse if they tried to avenge their fallen brothers.

We've decided to stop trying to care for plants. It's too fraught with peril. Plants everywhere breathe a sigh of relief.