a dog, and a rug and two indoor plants
You recently bought two indoor plants. It was a spontaneous purchase, inspired by a sale at K-mart and feelings of detachment. Plants that if you look closely, wink knowingly, whispering, "I won't last - you know you'll forget to water me. You won't feed me nutrients. I will dry up and die and you will feel guilty." But you decided to rail against such a small voice.
Choosing them was no easy feat. You went to that corner of K-mart that you never would otherwise, because the lights are dim and the air is thick. It's the "garden centre" although it's obvious to all it's neither a garden nor a centre.
You walked along the displays, assuming that an indoor plant could be recognized by sight. When you realized this was a wrong assumption you searched again, but this time using the informative tags stuck in the soil as a guide.
You chose two plants, mainly because you couldn't decide between them. Both were suited to a light-filled room, but one was green and pre-historic looking, the other purple and modern. Your room is of course very light filled, but a plant cannot live on light alone.
Still, you walked away with two plants, vying for your attention. You felt it was okay to be attached to living breathing organisms; cells and nuclei justify affection. They would have mood swings, change their appearance daily. They were almost human.
What if you put them in a dark room, or forgot to water them? Was there a plant welfare agency who would uncover your abuse? You felt this was jumping to conclusions. Your love for these plants would not die. No, this was true commitment.
Then you thought you ought to settle down one day, with a dog, and a rug and two indoor plants. That would suit you just fine.