# How to Survive a Dreadful Date with the Generous Help of Floral Accent
Every girl gets called by the name ‘Pinky’ at least once in her lifetime. Every girl is presumed to blush violently once she hears the name ‘Pinky’ albeit it's not supposed to be her real name. Once a girl is summoned by the name ‘Pinky’ she ceases to be a girl and becomes a Geranium tree, stoic and expressionless, slowly dying out of boredom. And then, more often than not, the men who lead the Union pick her up by the waist and put her inside their shabby bachelor apartments for the general consideration of their second cousins. And after a trivial day or two, there come the second cousins, riding their rickety scooters, looking dilapidated as ever for no particular reason. They immediately start asking stupid questions like ‘Do Geraniums prefer the sun or the shade?’, ‘Do Geraniums come back every year?’ or ‘How do I know for sure if my Geraniums are dead?’ etcetera. They frown and minutely inspect the tiny tree hastily planted in a dusty old terra-cotta pot and after an accustomed pause or so, generally settle for saying stuff like ‘What a drunken old rascal like you is doing with such a lovely tree?’ and leave at once, stomping like crazy otters, without even caring for a sip of their much-favored masala chai. And then the disheartened Union men choose to get rid of their tree and relieve it to the nearest municipal dustbin, terra-cotta pot and all. At dusk, they come back home tumbling, dead-drunk, and sob like soft babies for the rest of the night, all the while imagining lush valleys polka dotted with countless Geranium bushes, swiftly swaying under the influence of a cool afternoon breeze. The abandoned trees, however, cease to be trees and regain their female-forms once the morning sirens from the nearby factories start ringing. Slowly, the girls pick themselves up from their pots, dusting the soil under their fingernails, and head home, plotting some lame excuse for their worried-to-death mothers. All in all, it’s not such a bad experience.
#How to Fix a Faulty Marriage with the Aid of an Asylum
You’ve been secretly carrying The Pine River Mental Institution inside your bosom for quite a while. Your husband doesn’t notice. He’s too busy dreaming of Santa Fey. He digs Santa Fey the way one generally digs the Beatles or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He can name each street and each prominent building of the former Spanish colony from his memory. When you two make love, an extremely unlikely event that is, he shuts his eyes and moans in pleasure-‘Elevation: 2,194 meters, Area: 96.9 km², Population: 83,776’. Keeping his eyes tightly shut throughout the act, he cums like a teenager, whispering the latest weather updates from New Mexico. The Pine River Mental Institution goes unnoticed. Frankly, you’ve become quite accustomed to its tiny presence. It feels like a small and fluffy animal tucked inside your cleavage. Not an unpleasant feeling after all. When dusk falls, you like the feel of putting on your favorite corset and standing on the balcony for everyone to see. Men gather under your balcony and whistle. They say you have a beautiful body. They call you by strange names. You like being called by strange names. It generates a weird kind of fondness inside your throat. Inside the house, the husband tries to decipher the mysteries of the Pueblo-style architecture under the dim rays of the Turkish lamp. Inside your skin-hugging satin lacings The Pine River Mental Institution tugs at your nipples. The more aloof your husband, the needier The Pine River Mental Institution becomes. Eventually, the men under the balcony get bored and leave for dingy pubs. For dinner you fry up sardines and sneakily tuck them inside your bosom. The husband doesn’t notice that you’ve been losing your appetite quite rapidly. He devours his portion while reading a pamphlet on The Georgia O'Keeffe Museum. The Pine River Mental Institution makes a strange purring noise. Your marriage seems to be in tune, almost photogenic, like any other marriage. The neighborhood seems peaceful at night, like any other neighborhood. Way past midnight, when the drunken men sloppily drag themselves to their ever-dissatisfied wives and the regular broils, your husband sleeps like a baby dreaming of Santo Nino Lane or Waldo Street while you, on the other end of the king-sized sleigh bed, slowly drown in your slumber, clinging to The Pine River Mental Institution like a soft toy, imagining lobotomy and electric shocks.