I’m The Rotting Cabbage On Your Windowsill, And I’m Begging You To Stop Pretending You’re A Gardener
As a brassica, I must tell you the truth, however uncomfortable.
It’s time to accept that defeat smells like decaying brassica.
When you cored me out a few weeks ago and plunked me in front of this kitchen window, I thought you had ambition. Moxie, even. Where others might see garbage — just a cabbage core sawed with a rusty butter knife — you saw an opportunity. You had a window box full of soil, a smelly lump of plant matter, and a dream.
You know that saying about eyes being the windows to the soul? Your apartment’s eyes need a good cleaning. And the soul they gaze upon is a black-thumbed menace to all botanical lifeforms.
You’ve come a long way from killing succulents and prayer-plants, haven’t you? There are no plant gods here. Not on this windowsill. Not in this mayonnaise jar.
If I were the first vegetable to perish here, I think I’d have a better handle on your motivations, and I might even understand why you tried. When I’m in my prime, I look like a lush purple rose. You can roast me, noodle me, wrap me around a nice sausage. My leaves can reduce swelling! You can even put me in a vase — I’m that good-looking.
