My poor nearly 10-year-old ficus plant -- the one my parents got me as a first-anniversary-on-my-newspaper-job present back in Septmber '98 -- finally just looked too, too sad. Fewer than half of the few remaining leaves were pure green anymore. It was finally mostly branch. Watering (not too much or too little) and trimming (not too much or too little) was no longer enough. I took it to the dumpster. It's been dumped.
That plant's been with me in four abodes in that decade. That plant's been green in the desert (well, green in an apartment in the semi-desert around Hermiston; oy, I'm a pedant). Now it shall go to Decorative Plant Heaven, its decorative duties more than fulfilled. And I should -- in fact, I shall -- get more plants. Plural. I like plants.
I hope to be good to the next plants. I actually worried about getting a new plant first. Would being near the dessicated ficus have scared the new plant? Dear God! (George Carlin: "I'm talking about psychological torture! The mental abuse that we put plants through day in and day out. For instance: hanging plants. How do we know they're not scared shitless up there?!")