*Disclaimer: I don’t mean smuggling in an illegal way. I mean it in an I-think-I’m-funny way. Got it? Okay.
Last year, I bought my first plant. I called her Charlie, and she was a fresh little Seaside Daisy. Her type of plant was perfect; I love the seaside, and daisies are cute. I was incredibly proud of my purchase and wouldn’t stop talking about my little plant Charlie.
She survived the first few months. They were a joyous time; watching the first flower appear, watching the leaves grow taller.
And then she died and it was very awkward.
People are asking about Charlie. I have to sneak her out of the house and into the bin. Only my roommate knows the truth.
So we go on a secret mission to buy a replacement Charlie. The bad news? There are no Seaside Daisies left. It seems I have killed off the last of her species. So I buy a cute flower that vaguely resembles the not-long-gone Charlie. I place her in a plastic bag. I push past everyone as I walk back into the house. People are asking me what I bought, but I can’t tell them, so I ignore them.
Then I place Charlie 2.0 into gone-Charlie’s old flower pot and act like nothing happened.
People are asking about Charlie. I tell them she’s going well.
Everyone finds out the truth eventually. I knew I couldn’t hide such a secret for long.
I smuggled in a plant last year.
And just this morning I smuggled one out.
Since the original Charlie, I’ve had about seven plants that have come and gone. They’ve all been named (Charlie, Clary, Connor, Cass, and another few that I’ve forgotten the names of. There was probably a Cleo in there somewhere.)
Today I decided was the day to cut all ties and throw out my last surviving plant. Well, surviving might be too strong a word in this case. It was brown. All over. But there was a petal! But despite this petal I knew it was time to let it go.
So I smuggled out a massive pot of brown stems in my dirty laundry, and now my balcony has no plants on it because I have none.
Maybe next year, campers.