Everything what's wrong of succulents

Previously in this series.

I'm in the habitualment of mistrusting an indoor plant. An indoors plant, I don't prize; you're the outdoors trying to sneak up to my house and get insituated. They're always spilling out of ceiling pots like a muffled green waterfall. You've got no belonging in my heart, houseplants! I'm under no obligation to tend to you. You're trying to live inside, sitting in your dirt-hutch, I mistrust those green hands jamming out of soil-pots, punching dirt (which is disrespectful) to get into my living room and look around at my furniture and doorjambs and whatnot? I don't thank you. Indoors-of plants are braggy on how slow they grow, like a whisper growing new heads, like I don't already know I'm going to die. 

And I'm not appreciational of succulents most of all. Don't try to trick me into thinking you're a present, succulents. You'll never suckle me, you green tarantulas. You've got flesh on you, and don't think I haven't noticed. You're a plant what's trying to get animalized, and I'll knock you back down to your rightwise trophic level, you enprickled upstarts. Go be a fern again, and pretend it's the Jurassic outside. Stop living inside and getting dust all over you. 

A succulent is a liar and a secret-keeper and a water-hoarder. It's a plant what's trying to build a cave inside itself, and that's not wants plants are for. You make a fruit and a leaf and you stay outside of doors, and you and me are not going to have a problem, plant-wise. You try to turn yourself into a spiky jug or a little skeleton of a succulent and we're going to be making fight eyes together. I won't envalue your situation, you duplicitous vegetable. Looking like a scarecrow body. You stay in the desert and you suck all the rain out of the sand if you want to, I won't come out there and bother you. But you stay out of my friends' apartments, sucking the breath out of their babies while they try to sleep. 

I want to know where you get wax from, succulents. What business do you have making wax and getting smooth and shiny all over, like a lamp from TGI Friday's or a peach what someone's shucked the fuzz off of? I don't recollect God signing off on letting plants make cuticles. You're made of nails, and you need to stop trying to jump up the consumer web and getting yourself human-parts to make yourself out of. I will kick you all the way back down the biomass pyramid, succulentals. You think I don't know what you're doing, trying to be made of fingernails and live indoors and carry a bottle of water around in you? You're trying to turn into a person, and that's none of your business. Next step is you're all going to start to try to whisper to me when you think I'm not looking, and my ears will refuse you. 

You're trying to make yourself a spine too. Don't think I unnoticed that, neither. No leaves for photosynthesizing, and you're building yourselves central columns instead of branches, so you're all standing up straight. Plants have no business getting interested in posture. Maybe a tree, but you aren't a tree and we're all in a matter of enknowingment about that. Trees have their own arrangement, and don't you worry about what they do. Trees and me understand each other. I have no quarrel with them. But you stop trying to get in my bedroom, succules. You slow-ass tarantulas. You're trying to grow eyes on your stalks, I can feel it. Trying to turn into a snail without my noticing. Popping up and growing bulbs and whatnot, like a mushroom that's more alive than I am. You've got radii and so forth, trying to be a seashell. You're all sneaking into the animal kingdom and I'll keep kicking you back to your regular phyla until you release your ambition back into the soil and let it turn into nitrogen. 

Stop being little frozen cabbages, stop trying to come home with me in a gift shop, and get yourselves out of hotel lobbies while you're on the move, succuli. Stop thriving. I know you're making a sound too slow for me to hear, and that's disrespectful to all three of my ear-bones and I will send you a certified letter to get you to stop it. Stop being all those colors you've got no business being, like mauve sometimes, you windowsill grifters. Stop making aloe vera. No plant out to squeeze out a medicine at me from its leaves. Stop trying to give me your helpful gel, aloe vera plant. I don't want any sort of helpful gel out of you; stop making me feel guilty by giving me a balm when I break your leaves off. I didn't ask for this. We're not symbiotic, and I don't owe you anything. Why is it that we've gotta put little show-pebbles all over your feet when we put you in a pot? Why is it that we have to weigh you down just to keep you in the earth, where you belong? You're not humble, you've got ambition and that's not right for your species; let tigers and aurochs worry about getting ambitions and you just worry about sunlight and root networks.

Spill yourselves out of your pebble-pots, succlements, and roll yourselves out of those trough-containers at outdoor patio bars, and tumble yourselves back down the night highway into the desert, back with all your old friends the fossils and bashed-up ancient seashells and trilobites and scorpions, and quit your planning. Too crafty to be a plant in my house; you think I don't know you're thick with planning, trying to grow a mouth to mumble at me with. Trying to Animorph into a person; you animorph yourself right back into plantery and you stay there or I will summon up Carl Linnaeus to witch-evolve you back into a bunch of moss and liverworts. You'll never catch up to me; I'm a grown man.