Bugfingers

In which I detect a plot

The ficus has mealy bugs.

I think my plants have unionised against me. They’re smuggling insects in after dark, conspiring to contract as soon as my back is turned.

Spidermites curl the lemongrass.

They watch me investigate, their leaves a masque of solemnity. They eye all sprays with unimpressed buds, and shrug the liquid to the floor.

The geranium is laced with caterpillars. The mint opted for thrips. 

Maybe it’s a masochism thing. They get a kick out of having their veins sucked (too much Twilight?). ‘Bite me harder! You know how I like it!’ The Very Hungry Caterpillar obliges, handcuffs in tow. 

The spider plants alone, take no insect companion.

They’re the cockroaches of the plant world, capable of surviving a nuclear incident or asteroid impact, and they clone themselves at a speed that might one day lead to world domination.

Dubious allies, to say the least.

Or possibly they’re back-stabbing members of the plant race, eliminating all competition through insect collaborators before triumphantly supplanting (ha).

Maybe I should just farm insects instead…

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