The “He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not” Flower Gets Real With You
I’m just going to tell it to you straight. He does not love you. He doesn’t even like you.
Hey, you. Yeah, you. The fairy tale princess plucking my pedals off one by one like they’re unibrow hairs to determine if “he” loves you or not. First of all, you’re killing me. Not just my patience and my faith in humanity, but you’re actually killing me, tortuously dismembering me, really.
And second, because I don’t know how much time I have left on Earth on account of you murdering me, I’m just going to tell it to you straight. He does not love you. He doesn’t even like you. Never did, never will. You don’t need me to tell you whether he loves you, you just need to look at all the signs. Has he ever gifted you a token of his gratitude? Does he ever initiate plans with you, or are you always the one professing your love outside his window break? Riddle me this, when’s the last time he rescued you from a tower? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Don’t tell me he’s a “late bloomer” because I’ve heard that one too many times before. If you’re trying to get to the root of the problem, think about how he only sends you pigeon mail asking to hang out at 2 a.m. Sorry, but that’d be a thorn in my side and where a lot of relationship problems stem from.
Men aren’t worth it anyway, trust me. I had to learn that lesson the hard way. The last situationship I had with a man was pure bliss. He was so, so sweet. Almost like honey. Always flew to my place when we hung out because I didn’t have a car. The first night we spent together, he pollinated me all day long. I even let him eat my nectar, which I’m usually pretty self-conscious about. It was the best sex I had ever had. We were happy.
And then guess what happened? The very next day — THE VERY NEXT DAY–he came by and pollinated another girl, my best friend in the whole meadow. Like, me and this girl shared secrets, makeup, and a stem. And I woke up to him pollinating her, raw, right in front of me. After that experience, I don’t trust men anymore.
Just because you have boy problems doesn’t mean you need to tear others down. Or in my case, mutilating me and my pedals. I get it, hurt people hurt people. But there are so many better ways to process your heartbreak that don’t have to do with skinning me alive. A good place to start is to talk to another human, not a talking flower. If you have good Gingerbread Lane Insurance, a therapist appointment might only cost you 2,000 pounds of gold. Finally, start focusing on yourself. You can’t love someone else if you don’t love yourself. And the more you focus on yourself, the less you’ll focus on the fact you’ve ripped off 90% of my limbs.
Why do you keep doing this? Not just amputating me, but trusting my insight. You really shouldn’t trust me, or any of Mother Nature anyway. I know better than anyone, she’s my mother. She’s self-destructive and as a result everyone gets hurt. Ever felt an earthquake? Yep, the one a few years back was when I snuck out to meet up with boy flowers in an unkept community garden. Besides, would you trust someone who doesn’t wear deodorant? Why do you think there’s so much air pollution? Exactly.
You trust a rodent in Pennsylvania to predict the weather, you rely on a turkey to bring your family together every November even though they all hate each other, and you claim the alignment of the sun and stars determines you to be indulging in “Scorpio behavior” when you’re really just an asshole. That would be like me asking your gambling addict cousin Dave for advice on how to best maximize my 401k. Just because nature is a “vibe” and you have a waning moon tattoo and a cat named Luna doesn’t mean we’re always right. We don’t know what we’re doing either. You’d honestly be better off with a Magic 8 ball.
I’ve been around the garden a few times, so just know you’ll grow from this. I won’t since I have one pedal left. But you? You’ve your whole life ahead of you and so many lessons to not learn from. While you’re out there, don’t forget to stop and smell the roses. Smell, not pluck.
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