My neighbour put out plants today, a whole whack of them on her balcony. They’re quite lush. I want them. I’ve spent most of my afternoon thinking how to get at them. They’re so close, barely ten feet above me. A big rod might do the trick, with a fish hook on the end. (Not the wee kind for perch and bluegill. The big kind, for deep-sea fish. Whatever you’d use to snag a narwhal.)

I suppose I could buy my own plants, but I wouldn’t know what to ask for. And I want the pots too. They’re expensive-looking, ceramic, not plastic. (Maybe some sort of net….)

It’s a good thing folks can’t tell what you’re thinking. I’d hate it if thought bubbles were a thing. Just picture it, in the hall:

“Morning. Nice day.” (How long do I have to talk to you?)

“Heard it might rain, though.” (Man, I want your dogwood.)

“Already is, over the mountains.” (Ugh. What a pervert. I knew I’d hate it here.)

I want, I want, I want those plants.

I don’t want to pay for them.

I especially want them because my myrtle’s dying. I kept it going all through the winter, but now it’s going brown, and I don’t know how to bring it back. Maybe I shouldn’t have put it in direct sunlight. I’m certain I watered it enough. Was I supposed to use plant food, or something?

You know what I hate? People who are so relentlessly chirpy there’s no room for commiseration. It’s like they’re allergic to complaint. They’ve got to find every silver lining. You can’t just play pictures-in-the-clouds.

Dude, man, I don’t like things. I don’t like a lot of things. Don’t be that kid from The Twilight Zone, where you have to be happy or he’ll zap you to the cornfield, which is code for oblivion, ’cause once you’re gone, you’re gone.

I do like The Twilight Zone.

I also like those plants, so if you know a way to get them, a way for me to steal them without endangering my life…. (Well, don’t tell me, because then I’ll do it, and it’ll be obvious I did it, with the pots sitting on my balcony.)

Plants, man. Mine.