Flowers are similar to the quintessential five-piece bath and body kit gift — they both say, “I didn’t know what to get you, but this is what girls like, right? Right?”

Why do we reaffirm the second Right? with “awww”s and smiles when we should be asking why? As in, why would you do this to us?

My theory is that women generally hate flowers and men generally hate buying flowers — everyone has some sort of unrealized flower vendetta — but neither group has recognized it yet. Yes, flowers are pretty and cute and smell okay, I guess. But they die, and they die quickly. It’s like giving the gift of a terminally ill puppy. Now, why would you want to do that to someone you love?

I believe that we need to start a movement against flowers.

The average inspired gift of a dozen roses costs between $40 and $60. Again, this is for something with a shelf life that’s shorter than that of a gallon of milk. If you truly want to make me happy, I’ll take the cash. Some people might call money impersonal, but I call it 8-12 footlong BLTs, a far superior gift than some wimpy, wilty flower taking up space on my coffee table and reminding me that it’s dying and that we’re all dying.

Rude.

Even though I like to think of my refrigerator as that thing that magically keeps my boxed wine nice and chilly and just the way I like it, I occasionally feel that while eating out every single day might be great for my inner happiness and Yelp credibility, it is not the healthiest (nor the most cost-effective) way to live my life. However, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: nothing feels as good as mozzarella sticks taste. Nothing! Not a thing. I think that by now, we’ve all realized that true happiness comes from within an appetizer sampler platter.

Regardless, sometimes I decide to go grocery shopping. I don’t really know much about meals, cooking, or general knowledge that applies once you cross the threshold into a kitchen, but I do know that I’m always so tempted to pick up a package of celery.

It just seems like the right thing to do, and more importantly it seems like the thing that Martha Stewart or Anna Wintour’s assistants would do, so I do it too. I always buy celery because for a moment, as I wheel my cart o’ celery around, I feel like I know that everything is going to be okay because people with no sense of purpose just don’t have the insight that I have, as a purpose-laden shopper, to buy celery. Whenever I’m in the store, I always envision myself snacking on celery while I watch reality television, feeling completely Posh (the Spice Girl, not the adjective) and satiated.

I have a vivid imagination.

Some might say that celery is delicious with peanut butter or ranch dressing, and this is utter bullshit. Peanut butter is what’s good. Ranch is what’s great. But celery? Do you know what celery tastes like in actuality? Crunchy face wash.

I hate celery. Never again.

I can’t remember the last time someone normal hit on me.

When I say someone normal, I’m only referring to someone within my generation, vaguely sober, and without potential restraining orders.

There was the infamous DP Incident of several months ago in which a gentleman approached me at the bar to compliment my “beauty.” I’m still not entirely sure what happened between his Mad Men introduction and the five minutes that followed, but by that point, he and his friend had re-approached me to inquire about my stance on following them home for some double-penetration. I will always remember this night fondly in my heart, for it was the night that I subsequently decided I was never going to leave my house again.

Then I realized I would have to leave my house again because a) I have a job and b) there is no underground tunnel system leading from my apartment to my two favorite stores, Auntie Anne’s Pretzels and Sephora.

This realization no doubt led to the misunderstanding between myself and a customer at work. He mistook my kind customer service skills as romantic advances; I mistook his daily patronage as his dedication to our espresso. (We pay $10/lb. That’s wholesale! It is REALLY good espresso.)

After two weeks of him asking both me and my coworkers what my schedule was and me flattering myself with the thought that he just liked my lattes the best, it all came to a head one morning. After getting his drink, he awkwardly handed me a napkin. It was really sweet for the two seconds it took me to realize that even though I always feel like a 10-year-old, that ship has sailed, docked, sailed again, and sank somewhere. I am not 10, and this shit is weird.

“This is so you can write your number down so I can take you out sometime,” he said. It’s worth mentioning at this point that he appeared to be at least a Teen Mom older than I am.

“That’s… nice,” I said, “but I have a boyfriend. Sorry.” Also, I made a promise to myself that I would do my best to not die this year.

And this is where it should have stopped. Instead, he said, “Well, so do I!” and laughed at his own joke. Again, coulda, shoulda, woulda stopped. He pushed the napkin closer to me. “Write your number down anyway,” he said knowingly.

Excuse me.

Long story, but I later found out this particular dude was also infamous for stalking the girls at a restaurant across town. Charming and not at all unsettling!

Then there was a few weeks ago. During this time period, I was doing something different with my hair, which I think set off a beacon to those who are currently splashing around in the mid-life crisis pool.

Like, I was trying to complete a transaction at the gas station and a man hovering around the counter stared at me until he finally told me, out of nowhere, the things he would do to me if he were 25 years younger. That’s what he said: “The things I would do to you if I were 25 years younger.” As if his unfortunate date of birth was the reason why he and I will never do all of the things.

There was also the grandfather who told me he’d rather have me for dessert than his actual dessert, and the middle-aged on-duty police officer who asked me if I fooled around on the first date. You don’t understand how much I wish I was lying.

I’m not dying to get hit on. I don’t even like getting hit on. Truth be told, I would be entirely satisfied if no one ever even spoke to me again in any context, period. But why do I only attract the drunk, the creepy, and the elderly (and usually a weird, lethal cocktail of all three)?

To quote Björk, there’s definitely (definitely, definitely) no logic to human behavior. And to quote myself, fuck this shit.

They say beauty is everywhere. It’s not. But it does come in unconventional packages, and today I’d like to share with you some of my favorite unintentional beauty icons.

Horses.

Can you even begin to imagine this with a touch of Diorshow?

If mascara companies really wanted a convincing campaign, they’d quit pushing meaningless words like “volume” and “lengthening” on their ads and just promise that we would look like horses. Look at those lashes! You could sweep a castle floor with them.

Rotini pasta.

Ugh. These noodles KILL IT every time.

The reason why many women abstain from pasta at Italian restaurants and opt for salad has nothing to do with watching their figures. It has more to do with the fact that rotini pasta reminds them that try as they might, they will never be able to perfectly manipulate the hair in the back of their head with their curling irons. It’s one of those unspoken tragedies that none of us like to ever think about.

CHP.

What if this was your boyfriend’s ex? Wouldn’t you just DIE?

Few things are as innately majestic and intimidating as the California Highway Patrol. Perfectly dressed in chic black with that perfect pop of white, they’re always best dressed on the road. And the awe and reverence they receive when they flip on the cherries and berries? So timeless. As mortals, we can only dream of one day attaining a similar show-stopping presence.

The American Kestrel.

Best dressed EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. without fail.

Excuse me, bird! I think you got Urban Decay Naked palette all over you! Wait, that’s your natural coloring? IS NATURE KIDDING? This bird is a living, breathing YouTube eyeshadow tutorial. I’m going to cry.

Rosy-lipped batfish.

Important question: What lip liner do you think she uses?

People like to throw around the term “spirit animal” like it’s nothing these days, but this is my spirit animal.

Mona Lisa.

Isn’t she the sultriest?

She’s the world’s most recognized face and she doesn’t even know it. Is there anything more beautiful than being modest? I mean, other than being naturally smokin’? You just know that this is a girl who isn’t going home alone. She’s not being a drag, she’s being a queen. A queen without eyebrows. And I don’t even think she’s wearing foundation in this pic. Ugh. Not fair.

My whole life, I have aspired to be a woman with a small purse. Here’s where I’m at on the small purse front: I once emptied out my purse — a biannual affair — and discovered two small purses hiding within.

I like to think of my handbag as more of a life bag, if you will. In it contains everything that I need to live my life. It also contains evidence of a life once lived: receipts, movie ticket stubs, crumbs, etc. Whatever, I own my messes.

Anyway, the thing about chicks with small purses is that you know they’ve got their shit in order. They do their laundry. They don’t know what last call looks like. Their nails aren’t chipped. They own more than one cleaning product. They probably even book their hair appointments at the tail-end of their last hair appointment instead of frantically trying to get a day-of job done in a two-hour window, and this is really what any of this is about: How do people know that they’re going to have enough money for a luxurious haircut and color — you know that girls with small purses are getting highlights and lowlights for their highlights and highlights for their lowlights — 4-6 weeks before they even need them?

I don’t even want a small purse. Frankly, small purses suck. You know the girl with the small purse doesn’t have a spare tampon or a q-tip or hand lotion or some weird but totally readable book, in the right circumstances, from the 30% off display at Barnes & Noble in there.

I just want what the small purse represents: An entire life with less fucking clutter.