I never thought I'd find myself pondering the existential crisis of a teal ranunculus, yet here I was, staring at a wall adorned with what could only be described as botanical taxidermy. My sister, ever the avant-garde decorator, had proudly displayed her latest acquisition: a ceramic flower masquerading as wall art. "It's from Chive," she announced, as if name-dropping a prestigious art gallery. "They've been designing these for over ten years." I nodded, wondering if a decade was long enough to perfect the art of creating flowers that looked like they'd been caught in a nuclear accident. The ranunculus, small and teal, seemed to mock me from its perch. "It's... charming," I lied, the word tasting like sawdust in my mouth. "Isn't it?" she beamed. "It's the perfect wall decor. So much better than those tacky paintings you like." I bit back a retort about the superiority of art that didn't require a green thumb and a loose interpretation of reality. Instead, I asked, "Does it come with a pretty box to put it back in when you come to your senses?" She ignored me, lost in raptures about her faux flower fake floral masterpiece. I wondered if Chive made ceramic psychiatrists to go with their wall art. We were going to need one.