San Franciscans are suckers for house plants, but oftentimes, said plants fail to thrive despite one’s best efforts to water, repot and Instagram them (though your succulent has a few choice words about how that’s been going). And why’s that the case? Well, for starters, the moderate climate and fog are considerable factors. If you’re desperate to understand their struggle to survive, consider this list of grievances:
The Lone Cactus
Complaint: Yearning for drier pastures
“Every single day, I experience this overwhelming sensation that I’m not supposed to be in San Francisco. A lot of other cacti have come to call their artisanal terra cotta potting home, and that’s just fine and dandy for them. But I wish things were a little sunnier and a lot hotter.”
The Feisty Ficus
Complaint: Bad TV
“I am so tired of having to sit in the corner while you binge on Gossip Girl reruns. Chuck and Blair have a toxic relationship. Every time they get back together, I feel all the oxygen leave the room, which means I can just forget about photosynthesizing. That’s how suffocating those two are.”
The Maternal Orchid
Complaint: Your insensitive boyfriend
“I don’t want to listen to your boyfriend prattle on with apologies because he ‘didn’t realize’ it would offend you to choose a steakhouse for your anniversary, even though you’re a vegan. I’m also done with his ridiculous arguments about how ‘cashmere hoodies’ are appropriate to wear out to dinner because they’re cashmere. Sister, r-e-s-p-e-c-t. You can do better. ”
The Irritated Indoor Herb Garden
Complaint: Kitchen carnage
“Every time you drunkenly butcher that ambitious dish you’re trying to concoct with your fresh Eataly-ian ingredients, I can’t help but shed petals of rosemary and basil in memoriam. It’s cooking with wine, not cooking while floating in a vat of it, you monster.”
The Empathetic Bonsai Tree
Complaint: Lack of relaxation in this apartment
“Listen, all you do is stress, and I can’t help but absorb that energy. It’s either about why no one’s released Trump’s pee tape yet, finding plans for Friday night or why your herb garden isn’t productive enough. I don’t know how you expect me to be Zen when you haven’t even made it to a yoga class in the past month (but keep donning those ridiculous mesh cutout spandex pants to lie around in while scrolling through Instagram on Sunday mornings).”
The Bossy Bamboo
Complaint: Your blindspot to bros
“I don’t understand why you keep going on dates (to your orchid’s distinct pleasure, now that you’ve kicked the boyfriend to the curb) with dudes who describe themselves as big Woody Allen fans or who are ‘news junkies’ and ask if you’ve ever heard of this ‘sports site’ called FiveThirtyEight. How am I supposed to grow and create luck for you if you actively sabotage yourself?”
The Vanishing Violet
Complaint: My invisibility
“It’s embarrassing to even have to say anything about why I’m not doing well. Can we skip me? You’re not doing anything wrong—the sunlight in your apartment is great, and you water me enough. Sorry, I really don’t know. I’ll do better.”
The Sulking Succulent
Complaint: My faded fame
“You rescued me from that hip trinkets shop downtown—thank you! Honestly, it was pretty horrible to spend my days wedged between the bath mat with boobs on it and the mug plastered with RBG’s face. I just…I miss my days in the spotlight. You used to Instagram me all the time. Millennials in the shop used to pick me up and pose with me. Think pieces were written about my trendiness. I miss that. I miss who I used to be.”
