The Repressed Horticulturist – Curse #78

Posted on August 5, 2011


I went to the Rooster Store because I needed something messy that would make a lot of noise and peck at my feet. The interior of the store was a little too Upton Sinclair for me. There was a lot of chasing and slaughtering and giggling. I approached a group of cages and a girl who was wearing a Rooster Store uniform. I’m looking for something messy that makes a lot of noise and that will physically abuse me, I said.

Great, she said. I’d love to go out on a date with you.

I said nothing. I just stared through her.

Wait, she said. You mean you want a rooster, right? Oh God. I’m so embarrassed.

I continued to stare and began to drool.

Are you on drugs or something, she said.

Yes, I said. Yes I would love to take you out for dinner.

That’s how I met my practice wife. We got married two months later and stayed that way for ten years. Two of those years were great and I learned a good deal about happiness. The other eight years were a civil war. She died in a car wreck right after our tenth anniversary. The medical chart said acute trauma, but I knew that the attrition had finally wore her down and the cause of death was me.

After my practice wife I went through two more. When the third passed away, I went back to my original plan. I got a rooster and it died. I got a goat and a cow. They both lasted a year. I lost a dog, a kangaroo, a lawyer, and even a very small dinosaur. In the end I gave up and accepted the fact that most living things could not survive me. I bought a cactus thinking I should try plants and that maybe I was a repressed horticulturist. The cactus wasn’t messy or loud but sometimes I would stick myself on one of it’s needles and that was satisfying enough.

Posted in: Year 1: Curse