Diary of gardening

seeds from a drug dealer

water is bland, so add salt

threaten to harm the plants' loved ones if they refuse to grow

regularly whip them if they grow crooked - spare the rod etc

make own fertilizer

give them "the talk" once they hit plant puberty

Don Quijote Parte Número Tres: Los Romances

A long time ago in La Mancha, in a town whose name neither Miguel de Cervantes nor I care to remember, there lived an old, skinny nobleman with a few minor titles and a dilapidated manor to his name. Although he'd grown a touch senile in his old age and his family and many others often failed to take him seriously, he had one or two friendships that had been made close by countless miles travelled and strengthened by insurmountable odds overcome. His name, like his town's, has long ago passed from memory, but for simplicity's sake it may as well have been Don Quijote de La Mancha.

At least, that's how it was. Was, and is no longer, because unbeknownst to our ever-unlucky protagonist, a conspiracy was brewing. A lone windmill, cut from the same mold as the troupe Don Quijote recognized as disguised giants and battled in La Mancha, shiftily scuttled out from behind a craggy boulder only to slide a plywood covering off the opening of a nearby dead-drop. A blue glow emanated from the niche in the plain, and as the windmill reached in the rapid rattling of a keyboard could be heard quietly drifting over the rolling hills. Suddenly a blue laser shot ten feet out and then stopped, as if it had punched straight through space itself and continued along into interdimensional nothingness. From there a bright point of light flashed and began to grow into an enormous circular plane of blue electricity. The windmill's icy, focused stare softened into a smirk, then a sneering grin before finally settling into the cold chuckle of a pleased killer. The giant in disguise stepped into the portal, and disappeared.