I don’t feel well, today, so I’m loafing about the place, taking vaguely ominous pictures of my shirt. What do you think, Internet—do you like my shirt?
I have lots of shirts. Probably too many shirts. This one is good because it already has holes in it, so no-one will notice when I make a few extra. It’s also quite warm. I usually wear it to job interviews—I think it makes me look friendly and approachable, but not too posh. This shirt says “hi. I’m a sweet middle-aged lady. Comfortably middle-class. Middle-everything. You should trust me and hire me and compliment me on my style. Also, I probably bake.”
Really, I don’t bake, and I serial-kill plants. That potted ivy peeking out from behind the sofa? That’s mostly dead. There’s a shrivelled-up succulent in a pot to my right: it has one bright green leaf sticking up in the middle. I’ve a bush on the balcony hanging on by a thread, and a horrible weed I’ve been watering for years. The plant it choked out rotted away last Christmas.
I killed a spider plant, once. You have to be a monster to let a spider plant die. If I baked for you, you’d die, too.
Never trust a shirt.