When the pandemic struck, my friends took up gardening. As they posted pictures of their ferns and flowers on Instagram, I watched some wither. Even die. The plants, I mean. Distraught, frowning faces begged sympathy for their posted images of failed green things.

And how I laughed.

To rub it in, I Googled pictures of healthy Chocolate Cosmos and Purple Passionflowers - rare, exotic plants - with myself photoshopped in frame, smiling, wearing sunglasses, and grinning. I pointed to my prizes like, "Yeah. I did this."

No one responded, but the message was clear: "I am better than you." It was important to me that they understand this.

Do you think they understand?

When the restrictions were lifted, and we all began to hang out again, I lied and said I'd sold those flowers online for exorbitant prices. Having no reason to suspect I was lying, my friends congratulated me. In actuality, I had sold my classic Rickenbacker bass and Fender SG guitar to buy the shit I claimed I'd bought with the fake flower profits: a laptop, a PlayStation.        

In truth, I wept when I sold those old guitars. They were my late parents' high school and college graduation presents, respectively.

I miss them dearly, those guitars. And my parents.

I want my parents back. They died of a stroke and Alzheimer's. I want my guitars back. The hillbilly at the pawn shop gave me half their value. Laughed at my mask, too.

Darwin, you're a fickle motherfucker.

When the pandemic struck, I sat alone in my apartment and drank all day, binge-watching Breaking Bad.

Now, I've stopped hanging out with my friends because I resent their nurturing. When I see pictures of my friends with plants on Instagram, I unfollow them. Their self-congratulatory comments. You're not a fucking flower's mother. Mother Earth despises us. 

I plan to break into the music store and steal back my SG and Rick.

Or, sell my car. I never leave my house anymore, anyway.