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I never thought I’d become the guy who talks about soil mixes and worm poop like it’s poetry, but here we are. It all started with clay-like soil that strangled our roses. I learned about peat moss, compost, and the magic of mixing different soils to give those struggling roses a fighting chance. That was the first spark.

Then came the succulents—the wise men of the porch, silent guardians watching over my experiments. Slowly, the garden began to breathe again. My mom’s pericos bloomed a brilliant yellow, and the Bells of Fire gave me two tiny bells. Just two—but they felt like trophies.

Not everything was victory. Mom planted mint under full sun, and it shriveled like paper. I saved a piece and replanted it in shade, whispering, “Mint hates full sun.” Lesson learned. Then came my biggest mistake: uprooting a reddish-flowered myrtle because I thought it was dead. It wasn’t. I killed it. Its twin—a white-flowered myrtle—came back stronger, blooming daily as if defying death itself. I fed it worm castings and bone meal, hoping to make up for my crime.

The little fig was another miracle. It started as a dying twig, screaming for help. I fixed its soil, and it exploded with leaves bigger than its own body. It even gave me two figs that never matured, but its fight was so fierce I had to stake it to keep it upright.

Of course, chaos never sleeps. My Elephant Ears died from parasites before I could save them. Mom nuked my sages and bluebonnets when they were just sprouts. I was mad, but mistakes are part of the game.

Then came the veggies—and the madness. I planted tomatoes both red and green. The green tomatillos were sun choked so they never gave fruit, but the red ones, boy little tomatoes and then massive ones were born. The rain blessed us, and the plants grew, but the chiles went wild. I planted them too close, and now the garden looks like a jungle ruled by the chile de árbol cartel. They bullied the jalapeños and bell peppers into submission. The jalapeños fought back with two massive red warriors—spicy, delicious, unforgettable. The bell peppers surrendered early.

The melons? They quit life and committed seppuku. But the butternut squash? Oh, that fighter gave me two massive gourds despite being bullied by the chile cartel. Later, it gifted me little gourds that I smoked and turned into a creamy dip with cheese.

And now, the harvest. A tray full of fiery red chiles—twisted, fierce, alive. Proof that patience and chaos can bloom into something beautiful. I’ll dry them, grind them, maybe turn them into a salsa that bites back. For now, I just stare at them, proud and humbled. This garden isn’t perfect—it’s a battlefield of mistakes and miracles. But it’s mine.

Oh, I almost forgot about the Morning Glory. Mom planted two and one day said, “They don’t want to bloom.” I took that to heart. One night, after a few beers, I sprinkled my pixie dust on them and whispered, “Time to bloom.” You might not believe me, but holy salmon—the next day one bloomed so hard I was shocked while peeking through the shower window. Days later, the second one went hardcore too. A thousand beautiful blue and purple flowers now dance above the jalapeños below, like royalty admired by their fiery subjects.