I never thought I'd be the type to get excited about wall decor, let alone fake floral arrangements masquerading as modern art. But here I am, waxing poetic about a ceramic teal flower with spiky petals that looks like it was plucked from the fever dream of a color-blind sea urchin. My boyfriend brought it home one day, proudly declaring it would "spruce up the place." I eyed the spiky monstrosity skeptically, wondering if "spruce up" was code for "make our apartment look like an avant-garde dentist's office." But as soon as we hung it on the wall, something miraculous happened. Our sad, bare living room suddenly felt alive, as if that little teal flower had single-handedly dragged us into the world of sophisticated adulthood. Now, I find myself giving impromptu tours to bewildered guests. "And here," I say, gesturing grandly to our spiky friend, "is a prime example of post-modern botanical expressionism." I have no idea what that means, but it sounds impressive, and isn't that the point of wall decor? The best part? Unlike real flowers, this one thrives on neglect and never judges me for forgetting to water it. It's the perfect metaphor for my approach to adulting – fake it 'til you make it, and look fabulous doing it.