“The Cat, The Cactus, and The Worst Date Ever”

I should’ve known it was doomed when he showed up 15 minutes late — carrying a cactus.

“Sorry, I thought flowers were too basic,” he said, grinning and holding out the spiky disaster like it was a romantic gesture.

First red flag: a plant that could physically stab me.

Second red flag: his profile said he was “a cat lover.” Mine did too. I assumed we shared a love for cats — not that he lived with 13 of them.

We got back to his place — (I know, dumb, but the cactus threw off my judgment) — and it smelled like a Yankee Candle called “Litter Box Memories.”

While I tried not to gag, one of the cats (I later learned her name was “Miss Havisham”) climbed up my leg like it was Everest.

The date hit rock bottom when he suggested we “introduce the cactus to the cats” because “they need more nature.”

One swipe later, the cactus toppled, and Miss Havisham, in a fit of feline fury, launched it directly into his face.

He screamed, flailed, and in the chaos, knocked over a giant glass aquarium — home to his pet tarantula, “Mister Snuggles.”

I left faster than his Wi-Fi speed — cactus, cats, spider, and dignity all behind.

On the way out, I texted my best friend:
“Next time I say I’m meeting a guy who owns more plants than friends, STOP ME.“