Intuitive Type Writing Example (A Trip to a Flower Shop)

At some point in everyone’s life, a very important stage arrives. It spares no one — inevitable like growing up, relentless like the end of life.

Yes, it’s that time: flower growing.

That day, my colleagues from the neighboring department decided, in a semi-voluntary-compulsory fashion, to introduce me to the world of beauty.

Said beauty was located in a large covered pavilion, above the entrance of which hung an impressive sign reading “Greening.” This wasn’t some sad little “Flowers” kiosk by the metro — no, this was clearly a serious establishment, run by serious people, where serious money, serious grandmas and grandpas were in play. I spotted a couple of such venerable elders later by the shelves with gardening tools, inspecting rakes with deep suspicion.

Passing through the automatic sliding doors that screeched in the best horror movie tradition, we entered a huge hall where a handful of people — like a handful of olives rattling in a one-gallon jar — drifted about, two-thirds of them grumpy staff members.

A security lady, glasses glinting ominously, gave us a distinctly unkind look. For some reason, I felt an urge to turn out my empty pockets and apologize.

Remembering my long-suffering aloe, which has been hinting for about five years that it might be nice to repot it sometime, I budded off (ha-ha) from my colleagues and steered toward the shelves with flower pots. Since I was already here, I might as well get one — otherwise I’d never do it.

There were pots galore — for every taste, color, shape, material, and price… And there I stood, surrounded by this abundance, realizing I had absolutely no memory of what size pot I actually needed. I wanted to cry, call my mom, and go home.

Pulling myself together with an act of will, I studied the options and picked a pot that seemed about right — in the color “gray, like your life” — and trudged to bud back (ha-ha).

I found my colleagues near the pesticide section, enthusiastically discussing their effectiveness. I felt an even deeper respect for them — just in case.

We decided to wrap up our visit to “Greening” with a promenade around the endless tables of flowers for sale. My colleagues instantly switched to “I totally know plants” mode — and off they went.

First to be humiliated were the cacti and aloes, condemned for their typicality. Then the watering cans got criticized for being impractical. And then I got roasted myself, having dared to call a noble asparagus a “plebeian dill.” Hurtful.

I spent a long time looking at a lonely plant called Pilea depressa. There was something painfully familiar about it — atmospheric, relatable, almost totemic.

At the tables with cheerful violets and geraniums, I was hit by memories of innocent plant-refugees, gifted by relatives, who perished under my “it’ll-be-fine” supervision.

That, frankly, is the main reason I need plants of the “forget-about-it-for-a-month-and-it’s-already-conquered-half-the-room-and-plans-to-invade-your-neighbors” variety.

All those delicate little violets and blossoms die under my care — pointlessly and mercilessly. I feel bad committing floral genocide.

In the end, all went well. On my windowsill now stands an empty pot, waiting for its moment of glory. A purple marketplace courier is on its way with a bag of soil. My home aloe has found faith in the flower god.

Meanwhile, my colleagues had already made arrangements — they promised to give me, from their own private reserves, two varieties of aloe with unusual leaves.

Well, we’ll see. In my house, only the strong survive. Time will tell what those “unusual leaves” are really made of.