Let's talk about.

My dear nine readers, I’ve been on a small vacay these past few days. I missed you. So let’s get right back into talking about my first-world problems, like my formerly 25,000-foot rose bush.

I’ve written about that thing before, this ever-growing and possibly super-powered shrub I’d planted many years before while drunk. It’s now only about, I think, four-and-half feet tall, a little shorter than me, and the victim of a very bad haircut. It’s jagged at the top, with my friend leaving one long rattail so he can ostensibly nurture the seeds.

I just told him that I was writing about the sorry-looking state of it, including the rattail with the seeds. “They’re almost ripe,” was his deadpan response. OK. Because we want more of those alien rose bushes around. Only because I live in a major city on a major street did no one complain about it. As a thorny monster plant, I suspect its value as a break-in deterrent was actually admired. Go ahead, bad guys, give it a try. I’ll just follow the blood from your thorn injuries as you give up and walk away.

Here’s the thing: even at a mere four-and-a-half feet, it is still a deterrent to all who dare pass or speak its name. It took one day — one day — for giant, green healthy thorny shoots to sky up past its bad haircut and threaten, well, everything. I think I can even turn my doorbell back on.

Here’s another thing: across my sidewalk, no longer hiding its growth under another preposterous plant, this ridiculous juniper, is a rose bush. Yes, that species of rose bush. Did a seed from its monster friend make its way, unmolested in the ground for a few years (I’m told this is how roses work) before making a cute early appearance? Or is it part of the same plant? If so, is it best to give in and just build a house in the rose bush? It’ll be 25,000 feet tall by next April.