some dolt, --some old dolt, --some old, detestable dolt who uses phrases like "right on" in a tone that sounds like an engine revving, horrifically gave me flowers. why i do not know. because i once feigned interest in his cryptic crosswords? anybody could see that that was only a ploy to boastfully interject--on the subject of crosswords!-- how good i am at sunday new york times crosswords (a pointless and disappointing endeavour because he took no notice of my boast. and, in addition, when i stooped to help him with his cryptic crossword, he seemed not to believe me when i provided him with the obvious answer of 'recondite' to a clue involving the word 'abstruse', the logic being that because he didnt know what either word meant it couldnt possibly be the correct answer. him, continuing to circle the clue with his pencil and wrack his feeble brains rather than dutifully filling in the answer i had just given him: i dont know what this word abstruse means, though. me: it means recondite, c'mon we're done with that one, next question. doltish old bugger: well, i dont know what recondite means though. me: sigh, it means abstruse).
what i would like to know is exactly what was he thinking? hes about twice my age, and i am not, thank you very much, desperate. what interest does he think i would have in him? how dare he think he can just insert himself into my queenly realm unbidden like that? i dont even want to know what he imagined might possibly come of it.
when i carried the flowers home it was by a corner of the cellophane wrapping as far away from my body as possible, with a look of utter mortification on my face, just so that every passerby would know how displeased i was to get them. when i got home i found to my increasing horror that there were lottery tickets stuffed in the flowers. i've never been so insulted. you do not, under any circumstances, give lottery tickets to classy dames. i hope they won tons of money, because i refuse to scratch them. the whole thing makes me want to weep.
i mean, i dont even like getting flowers in the first place, not just when they're from maggoty faced old men. i rarely even buy them for myself (although i made an exception when dear sweet david died). all they do is die and then you have to wash the vase. bloody nuisance.
i am so very sickened, i am so sickened now.
