The Monstera and Other Ramblings
Between Plants, Cravings, and Keyboards
The Monstera is thriving, even though I neglect it a little. My friends gifted it to me when all my other plants kept dying; I suppose it was their way of showing faith in me. Since then, not a single potted plant has abandoned me. I like to think it’s not a coincidence but the result of a beautiful day. I’m writing this down in case I ever forget that what you give the world has consequences—and it’s not a threat, but a gift.
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I’m craving a tuna sandwich with mayo and olives, but I don’t have any mayo or olives—and I’m pretty sure there’s no bread either—because my kitchen is stocked with zero-calorie junk. I’m an idiot. Don’t judge me: not for calling myself names, not for my empty pantry, and not for binge-watching TikToks of grocery hauls from people who don’t have my body, my age, or my total lack of motivation. I wonder how healthy it is to demonize everything; of course, I have no answer.
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I’m tired of being and not being. I’m exhausted by this strategic plan to tell certain people to go to hell—only to have it dissolve into cotton candy at the last second. I’m fed up with good and evil, with sides and camps, with rigid minds, with crumbs, with lists and podiums, with those who always think they’re right, with certain days of my ovulation, and with the times I get stuck like a video game character bashing against a wall. Maybe that last image captures me best right now.
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Speaking of telling people to buzz off, I should clarify: I don’t actually do it because I tend to disappear without fanfare, and when I do, there’s never a next season. I don’t even like the spotlight for a triumphant exit. And once I’ve fallen out of love with a place, there’s no way to find its charm again.
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I’ve been trying for over a month to write the essays I plan to pitch to the magazine. I can’t even finish the first one—the one that lays the foundation—despite loving the concept. The days fly by, and I can’t focus for a single second; I wonder if it’s because I hate how I write or because I’m no longer a productive person. Let’s be honest: I never was. I only have occasional flashes of inspiration. But why can’t I get it done? How will I make a living if I can’t even string two coherent sentences together?
There’s not much else to mine today—just these little thoughts.
Have a great week.
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