Hello, Failure

Of all the enemies of literature, success is the most insidious

Sunday, March 14, 2004

Failure of the Day: R.I.P. Mr. Silverman

I suppose it was only a matter of time. We had to move our Ficus tree, Mr. Silverman, into my room because somehow (who knows how?) the action figure collection outgrew its shelving unit and a second shelving unit needed to be added, and the only place to add it was right where Mr. Silverman lived.

Mr. Silverman is a lovely tree and he, if not thrived, at least survived a full year in the dining room under Chris’s tender care. Within of week of being in my room, Mr. Silverman was dead.

On the one hand, I’m not surprised—As I’ve mentioned before (in my newly fixed up archives, lookee me!) I do generally end up killing, through nothing more than my own best intentions, everything that does not have the agency or ability to get away from me. On the other hand, though, I thought some if not most of that was due to my tendency to produce large volumes of carbon monoxide. But I don’t do that anymore. And Mr. Silverman is still dead.

I might as well face facts. The road to hell didn’t pave itself with good intentions. And I’ve got asphalt on my shoes.


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