The Existential Crisis of Bartholomew Piddle's Watering Can

Bartholomew Piddle, a man whose life ambition was to perfect the art of 'mildly damp soil,' approached his succulent, 'Pricklesworth III,' with a watering can named 'Gerald.' Gerald, as usual, began to hum the collected works of a forgotten interdimensional teapot. 'Not now, Gerald,' Bartholomew sighed, tilting the can. 'It's Pricklesworth's turn.' But Gerald refused to pour. 'Have you considered,' a tinny voice echoed from the spout, 'that Pricklesworth might prefer a sonnet of dew, rather than this uninspired deluge?' Pricklesworth III, meanwhile, vibrated slightly, a faint, high-pitched squeak emanating from its deepest root. 'He thinks your shirt clashes with the feng shui of his pot,' Gerald translated, 'and frankly, he's right. The teal is a little… aggressive.' Bartholomew, a tear welling in his eye, looked at his plant, then at his watering can. 'But it's just water!' he pleaded. 'Just water?' Pricklesworth III's squeak grew louder, now sounding suspiciously like a tiny, outraged opera singer. 'Water, dear Bartholomew,' Gerald pontificated, 'is merely a vehicle for emotional expression. And right now, Pricklesworth feels misunderstood by your sartorial choices. Perhaps a polka-dotted apron would appease him?' Bartholomew collapsed onto the ottoman, defeated. His plants were still thirsty. His shirt was still teal. And Gerald began humming the collected works of an even more obscure, disgruntled thimble.