I never wanted a corpse flower.

I know you're not supposed to say that about sweaters from your grandma, younger siblings, and accidental children. But since corpse flowers are none of the above and I'm in the business of honesty, I meant what I said — I never wanted a damn corpse flower.

In fact, I don't even want to write this article. But with my paycheck acting as an effective knife to the throat, I can only dash my eager editor's hopeful inquiries with my empty "Sure, maybe I'll write it today!" promises for so long.

But I still never wanted a corpse flower. For the record.

But I got one.

Fresh off the heels of our creation of Lois the Tweeting Corpse Flower monster, my former co-workers (and current well-intentioned friends) at Schipul thought it'd be a cute gesture to bring "their friends at CultureMap" a terracotta-potted surprise one morning.

Hmm.

And like the 21st century storks they are, they wheeled up to our front porch on Wood St. in a borrowed SUV, and unloaded a giant, sheathed stalk on our doorstep.

Not just any ol' weed, though. The stinkiest, raunchiest plant of them all.

While I realized it was gifted with the entire staff in mind, I knew, when the novelty wore off, I'd be the one cleaning up its excrement from the middle of the kitchen floor and walking with it at 3:30 a.m. in the middle of January.

Dammit.

While I certainly played my role in the corpse flower mania (exactly three of those tweets were mine, thank you very much), I was certainly the least enthused in the office about smelly vegetation. Our beloved columnist Steven Thomson's interpretation of Lois (with plenty of guffaw-worthy quippage by columnist Caroline Gallay and associate editor Sarah Rufca) was far, far more entertaining, and fulfilled any inkling of a need I had to see the thing in person.

Why would I wait in line to see a phallic object that was just going to reek of a dead body when it bloomed? No. Thanks.

And yet, when Lois No. 2 was wheeled into our office on Aug. 9, my whole life changed.

Nah, I'm just being dramatic.

After promptly relocating Lois No. 2 outside by the entrance to our newsroom, the only twinge of responsibility I felt was every time I walked in or out of that door. And even that wasn't umbilical enough.

I mean, what do I know about caring for a corpse flower, anyway? I watered her and talked to her like I would any inanimate object, but how do you nurture such a high maintenance stinkpot?

I actually didn't care to find out. Between looking at myself in the mirror and brushing my hair, I'm a busy girl. Don't get me wrong — I like plants. But plants are meant to emit odors far superior to my natural scent. When I can out-fragrance the flora, we gots problems, brah.

Strangely, despite my thinly-veiled disdain for the organism, Lois No. 2 flourished.

When she began to take on the silhouette of a half-peeled banana, I half-heartedly began to panic. I frantically e-mailed Houston Museum of Natural Science's resident horticulture hottie, Zac Stayton, for advice on rearing the flower girl.

But Zac got all scientific in his response.

You want me to do what to her what? Man, I don't even speak that language, Zac. And I certainly don't have a spare greenhouse on hand. So I chose to feign comprehension, and get back to fussing with irritated readers on Twitter.

Before I knew it, Lois No. 2 was changing so dramatically, Editor-at-Large Shelby Hodge was calling those death stench leaves "Fayza's Corpse Flower," much to my mortification. She began documenting its uncannily rapid growth spurts on a daily basis, and having deep discussions with Caroline about whether or not this was actually a corpse flower at all (verdict: unfortunately yes, after a consultation with the corpse flower life cycle).

And both my editor-in-chief, Clifford Pugh, and my managing editor, Chris Baldwin, were through nudging me nicely about my homage to the plant. Suffice it to say, the scene was more like a shootout at the O.K. Corral than the congenial newsroom of your favorite daily digital magazine.

So here's the article. Happy everyone?

In truth, I wish that corpse flower had never happened to me. And I can't wait for the weather to cool down so we can get rid of her.

Keep an eye out for the Lois No. 2 Room Wanted ad on Craigslist, Rice undergrads, 'cause she's looking for a new place to call home. Will you be her roommate?