My Name is Jodi and. . .

I am a killer. A straight up, in your face, serial killer. Just ask my yard. The stories it could tell. I've heard of the green thumb. I always thought it was a myth. Never really paid much attention. After looking at my brand-new-just- five-days-ago-flowers however, I've realized not only do I not have any green appendages, but my thumbs ARE awfully brown and crumbly. Crispy like. I was told in ninth grade that all those crinkly lines on my hands just meant I had an old soul. Nope. Markings of a killer.
I may have misplaced my camera, so I've brought in some stand in pictures, so you can feel the pain like I do.
5 short days ago, we dug up a new homey dirt haven to place some happy plants in. I could almost hear them singing. They looked like this:


Sadly, under the care of ME, they now resemble this:



and this:


Although, mine are less "dead is beautiful" and more, "crisp like desert"

It's not as if I set out to do this. It just happened. I know, likely story. But I can't help myself. I feel sad for them. It's almost like they're gazing across the street with longing, thinking about how the soil is probably richer on the other side of the fence/road. Can't say I blame them. Erin's flowers are tauntingly pretty. I have one last weapon however. This time in their favor. "I can overcome this!" I think to myself, so we've layed it on thick with the Miracle Grow!
Ahem.

(This was of course BEFORE we realized, Miracle Grow isn't SUPPOSED to be layed on thick)

sigh.