you! don't bring me flowers anymore...

i don't like flowers. i don't like receiving flowers as gifts. i don't like giving flowers as gifts. similar to my dislike of soup spoons (blog: "slow day at work" 5.31.07), i can logically defend this prejudice. (let me take this moment to tell my readers the only actual phobia is the one i have of fr*gs. i don’t even like to see that word in print. they creep me out. as do pickles since they resemble fr*gs).

cut flowers are beings en route to death. i hate to be so macabre, but it’s true. their misleading vibrancy is masking the fact that their roots have literally been cut and their days are quite numbered. when i see a bouquet of flowers, i cannot help but think that in a few days, those pretty, quasi living di/monocotyledons (dude, remember that from 5th grade science?) will be face down, feet up in my trash can.

so, AS IF i needed another reason to deeply, deeply resent flowers, something terrible happened to me yesterday. i even took a picture of it but i think i forgot to save it because i now i can't find it on my phone.

the flowers which were pushed on me by the clean up crew at a wedding i attended last week, spawned a caterpillar. when i saw this larvae with it’s undulating and segmented body just hanging out in my living room, i felt like i was being punk’d. i was praying that ashton kutcher was hiding in my bedroom along with my brother, best friend, and mom. please, ashton, tell me this is not real. i’m waiting for you to holler “surprise! it’s not a real caterpillar! it’s a GUMMY caterpillar! hahahahahaha!”

i am not kidding when i say that my gag reflex kicked in. and after my mini gag session, i did a really peculiar thing: i started jumping up and down, shook my head, shot my hands straight up into the air, all the while started screaming "ahhhhhhh!". i think the clinical term for this sudden and violent outburst would be “to engage in a freak out.”

i did what any convulsing woman would do…i steadied my twitching hand long enough to knock on my neighbors door and when he answered, i managed to squeak out, “caterpillar, help me…please, i *insert freak out dance here* can’t do it. caterpillar. flowers. *insert gag reflex*”

i honestly cannot believe that he followed me into my apartment. for all he knew, i was a crazy psychopath with a sadist tendencies. but he did and i’ll never forget the image of the tightly coiled caterpillar being flushed down the toilet. i know it’s not rational, but now when i go to the bathroom, i feel like the caterpillar will exact it’s revenge on my bum one day.