Danny bought a cyclamen way back in late winter, and it has thrived, survived the move, and is happily putting out new flowers oblivious to the heat it is supposed to dislike. My husband can't remember, "cyclamen" and calls it, "the psychopath" instead. I went to do a bit of dead-heading, reached in, and felt a sharp pain.
"The psychopath bit me!" I hollered to Danny (and anyone else out of doors nearby).
It couldn't have been a sting, as I saw no stinger or sign of a bite even. It turned red, like a rash but quickly returned to normal leading me to conclude that the plant had, in fact, assaulted me.
"Your plant is a goddamned triffid", I screamed.
Good thing I missed the meteor shower, or it could have been, much, much, worse.