I hate reading.

There, I said it.

I’m a writer who hates reading. It’s a paradox that breeds guilt in my chest. How am I supposed to improve my craft without reading? What kind of a writer am I if I don’t even like to read?

But it wasn’t always this way.

When I was a kid, I devoured books. I couldn’t find enough words to keep my imagination fed and happy. You’d often find me reading three or four books at a time, carrying them with me through the school hallways in my slouchy backpack like a mother kangaroo.

So what changed? How did I go from being…

That’s it. You’ve done it. You’ve exhausted your houseplant options. Your varieties of pothos hug the walls with their viney arms. ZZ plants and snake plants thrive in the dark corners of your home — you might want to dust those off at some point. A small army of succulents has you tactically surrounded from every windowsill. And your spider plant? It has somehow become sixty-two spider plants. You’re starting to feel like you own every houseplant in existence.

But that is, of course, nonsense.

The category of “house plant” is a man-made construct. While certain plants are indeed difficult…