Inside my Bushnell dorm, light filters through the southward-facing window and onto thirty various-sized pots and refurbished k-cups, each housing succulents, or cacti, or a propagating pineapple top that I dug out of the servery garbage can.

If you haven’t heard yet, houseplants are trendy. Houseplants are marketable, profitable, sexy. Fuck me, aesthetic-driven capitalism! Fuck me! I don’t care just so long as you ravage me over a bed of lusciously green monstera leaves! I am a part of the generation responsible for making the houseplant into the new avocado toast, the new Instagram-able latte art.

Just this past September, the Washington Post released an article entitled, “Millennials are filling their homes — and the void in their hearts — with houseplants.” But while I am a millennial—and yes, I am emptying my pockets to pack my home with photosynthesizing, fellow carbon-based beings—the void I seek to fill is not my heart. At least, not initially it isn’t. It’s actually a lot more literal than the human heart. Hint: the void is my vagina.

I’m like Medusa except instead of snakes for hair I have plants for a personality and the only thing turning rock hard at the sight of me is your penis. I am the seductress of the succulents. My go-to pick-up line on men at bars is “Hey you wanna sink your teeth into my bountiful fruit?” and then I take them back to my place for a bite of my dorm-grown persimmons and tomatoes followed by some aggressive motorboating of my voluptuous grapefruit titties.

Q: Am I trying to fill a void?

A: Yes, and I am filling that void with eggplants, cucumbers, carrots, insert yet another phallic vegetable or fruit here because I support body diversity, ginger. And when my plant-based charm fails to secure me a lover? The literal zucchini growing next to my bedside will do just fine.