Dear, dear Ass Wreath. Although our time together was short, awkward and slightly embarrassing - I am sad that it came to a violent end. The coroner swears that it was a wind storm accident. In fact, he did a lot of swearing about the mess of dirt, thorns and dangerous pointy shards you left in your wake on the patio. In my heart I know better. Plants that were created to withstand the harshest of environments couldn't survive in your presence. Their petrified remains grim reminders of your failure. Your soil dried up and blew away. The moss somehow started to have a slightly fishy aroma. All that remained of your brood was twine and skeletons.
Don't be sad, Ass Wreath. Your sacrifice was not in vain. For I have learned a valuable lesson: just because it looks easy on Pinterest, does not make it so. You will be my one and only Ass Wreath. You cannot be replaced (under direct orders of the management). The shattered remains of your soul are forever with me - since I can't seem to pry that chunk of terra cotta out of my heel. I hope you're in a better place with other dysfunctional wreathes that don't laugh in your general direction unlike your time here on Earth. In fact, you look healthier now, flung amongst the rose bushes in your final resting place as my children thought you were better suited as a frisbee than wreath. Perhaps they were right. Fare thee well, AW.
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