Fake Flowers

"it's all about image, these days." -Yacht Loggins

though i say to myself i care not about image, but is that so true? i LOVE flowers. i often fixate on flowers in the supermarket and wish i could buy them, not to long for lust but to create a surrogate object for affection. my last life in chicago, i would carry them from work on the bus, not destined for anyone but just as personal spectacle, to hold pretty for the sake of pretty. they'd dry out and become crumbs and dirt that i would justify not cleaning up because it was once something i cared about.

fake plastic flowers, however, i've never been into. i've actually hated. i touch them if i see them, and scoff, in my head. sometimes disease skips a generation.

and then, there's my room, my apartment, which i try to cover in fabric plagued with cheesy flower prints. i, in fact, got an awesome old chair at highland park garbage day that i now have in my room, which predictably is bludgeoned with faded flower print. my room, no matter where it is, has become a haven for the supernatural experience of recreating flower and color in the most baudrillardian hyperreal sense, both fake and beautiful, dead and reaffirming. and i love it.

i think it's just a self-reflective reflex for me to cover my life in pretty colors.