the brittany

I know, I know. After reading my dear butterfly post, you are all asking yourselves, "Wow, did this girl really have a cactus named after her?" Well, the answer is yes, this girl really did have a cactus named after her. It was actually named The Brittany. Kind of like Donald Trump is known as "The Donald." Except that Donald Trump is an arrogant moron, and I really would not like to be associated with him in any way. So never mind that analogy.

The cactus actually belonged to my friend Meagan, back when we were thirteen and were still going through the all-inanimate-objects-need-human-names phase that most pre-adolescent girls experience. (Why we ever thought that was cool, I'll never entirely understand. But we did.) So, she named her cactus after me.

Hey, look at my cactus. I named it The Brittany.

But it's dead.

Yeah! I know.

Um... Thanks? Thats, uh, really sweet of you.

Well, yeah...

Yes, folks, that's right, a dead catus. And not dead as in a little-bit-brown-around-the-edges dead. I mean dead dead. Dead as in a limp-carcas-flopping-over-the-edge-of-the-pot dead. As in there's-no-way-this-plant-will-ever-be-revived dead. So. A dead cactus was once named after me. My life is complete. I mean, really, what more could a girl want? Well, besides a new outfit...