I had a great dream last night, one of those mysterious and quirky dreams, filled with hidden meanings. Or I think I did. I'm sure I must have; everyone else does. And it was one of those dreams about which I could have written endlessly, exploring the obvious and the merely suggested explanations, delving into the future possibilities, whether or not I was actually prescient. But I can't do that now since I either didn't actually have that dream or can't remember it.
So I have to write about my gardenia. The one that's stalking me. The one above the kitchen counter, on a little plant shelf, next to the dracaena and the coleus. It's been budding for months but I forget to water it and it dries out and the buds fall off, one by one. Which does not make it happy, and which is the grounds on which it plots its revenge. No, I can't say that I know this with any certainty, but I'd hate to bet against it and be wrong. I mean, this is gardenia we're talking about. And evil gardenia, the devil's own gardenia, and it has mayhem and murder on its mind.
No, I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands, nip this problem in the bud, so to speak. I can't wait until the gardenia is stronger, can't wait until the facts become more obvious, the evidence stronger. That just might be too late, and this is far too important an issue to be left to the vagueries of fortune. One false step might prove fatal, not just for me, but for my family, my wife and daughter and the two cats. It's not just me, you see; if it were, I could take a chance, could wait for stronger evidence.
I could wait for the smoking gun. But could I? What if I'm wrong? What if the smoking gun turns out to be a mushroom cloud?
No, that gardenia is history. Lawn mulch. Fodder for the fuchsias. Headed off to the land of the landfill. And when I've finished with the gardenia, I'm gonna have a word with the coleus.
It's been far too smug lately.
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