I got sunflowers for my birthday and I had them on my table/ desk to inspire me to write. Every little girl loves flowers right? Right. Only what I didn’t have any idea about was that my beautiful sunflowers would start smelling like a sack of assholes.
Seriously. I was looking under my shoes, even took another shower (the inhumanity). After convincing myself that my computer wasn’t farting (I’ve been drinking for like 2 weeks straight) went to smell the flowers.
Whew! I then told them, aloud, that they didn’t smell like roses. Then I laughed the way crazy people who talk to flowers alone in their homes do.
Then I wrote this:
These sunflowers I got for my birthday smells like assholes. I just told them they don’t smell like roses, but I guess that’s an old joke to them. They didn’t laugh.
What is it about the American mind that insists that all inanimate objects must be infused with some sort of soul or personality? Have you watched that Tom and Jerry lately? It’s a horror show. It’s also my favorite, particularly during the Tex Avery era. Such exquisite violence. Watching it now makes me whence and understand where I get a ton of my violent fantasies from.
That’s when I thought maybe I should ask my therapist if I might need to commit myself for a while.
The real answer is that I need more fresh flowers in my house. Despite the fact that my allergies have been a nightmare since the jack the ripper of pollen lived in my house stinking it to high hell.
Maybe I’ll try daisies.
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