write-it-motherfuckers:

This is the fifth time this week that someone has had flowers delivered to you at work. They’re lovely, really, but you have practically no friends, no lovers, and everyone you work with either hates you or doesn’t give a flying fuck about you.

To your frustration, the person at the front desk never seems to remember anything about them other then “Super hot”, and the only things that are ever in the cards that come with them, are obscure quotes. Disturbingly enough, they all seem to be pretty in line with the sorts of things you’re into.