I’m Not Bitter
But more than that, if I am to be alone, I’d just prefer not to have a stalker.
A few years ago, someone sent me flowers. Since I didn’t have a boyfriend, I assumed they were from my mom, but the card wasn’t in her handwriting. It read, “Holly, it’s nice to see you every day…” (literally, the person wrote the ellipses) but there was no name. When no one fessed up, the sweet, maybe-I-have-a-secret-admirer idea started to fade. In a panic, I called the flower shop, but the name and description of the buyer didn’t match anyone at work, or in my whole world.
Tomorrow, the office will be full of beautiful pink and red floral arrangements sent to coworkers by their loving spouses. I’ll be fine. I’ll go home, eat the chocolate-covered Oreos my mom sent me, watch girly movies with my single friends, fall asleep alone and have champagne dreams of Zac Efron feeding me strawberries as we lounge on a sparkly cloud on the wings of a pegasus. I’ll survive. I always do.
Though, if anyone wants to send me flowers, maybe some nice You’ve-Got-Mail-style daisies, or one of those ridiculous bouquets that looks like a puppy, I’m not going to turn it down (as long as you sign your name). Then again, maybe more appropriate would be a single rose under a glass dome with petals that magically wilt one by one as my soul slowly succumbs to the curse of being single forever in a haunted castle with enchanted anthropomorphic furniture.
But even that kind of spell can be broken.
All that said, if you sent me those scary mystery flowers, whether they were meant for real or as a joke, please just never tell me.