I’ve decided to kill Bill. Bill is my aloe plant. And I’ve decided to kill him.
It’s the only way he can live.
Never listen to anyone, ever. People love to give you advice, and 51% of the time they don’t know what they’re taking about. Unless you’re at a blackjack table in a casino. I don’t know if dealers are obligated to give advice, but they will. This is because no matter how perfectly you play the blackjack table, if you play long enough, you’re going to lose. So blackjack dealers will give you advice.
People told me all different kinds of things about watering my aloe plant. “Water him every 2-3 days,” they said. “Water him once a week.” “Water him once every three weeks.” “Water him when you notice the soil is dry.”
But I have a new tactic: Never water him, ever.
Right now Bill is sitting in the courtyard, slowly dying of thirst. But here’s the deal: Bill was built for exactly this kind of situation. Bill’s ancestors come from the desert, where they sometimes had to subsist for long periods of time without water. Apparently, a scarcity of water doesn’t hurt aloe plants; it makes them stronger. The worst thing you can do with aloe plants is give them too much water; the roots rot.
Which is why I’m done watering Bill. Eventually the rains will come, maybe in April, maybe in May, maybe in June, and the rains will water Bill. Bill will be happy, he will live, or maybe he won’t live, in which case he was destined to die.
Not that I believe in destiny.
It’s a beautiful night here in Guadalajara. The stars are out as much as they can be in a city of five million people. It’s Friday, but I’m not going to do anything except maybe walk to El Expiatorio and sit admiring the neo-gothic architecture. And maybe when I come back I’ll watch a movie, and ignore Bill.
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