If you think that’s twisted, I suggest you
turn around, walk away, and forget every
thing I’ve ever said in your presence. Or
stick around like a sore thumb. What sick
logic nonsense can be. What could you
possibly ever learn from me? You’ve
heard me suggest that I’m a late bloomer
dozens of times, but have you ever seen
one single flower? About my person?
Besides back in the days of my floral
bouquets, I mean. I’d arrive triumphant,
bearing a tangled wad of decapitated
blooms, spending the next hour or
two arranging them in various vases
for the walls and for our desks and for
the living room table (which I’d almost
immediately transfer to the floor beside
the couch when on went the teevee), all
ballooned up until bowled over by pride
over each and every vibrant floral fricassee.
