Sentience in a seed-pod

Here's a little feel-good disney type story about karma. First let me say that I think St. Valentine's Day is a crock of shit. There, I said it. It's not because I always feel sad and lonely on that day, although a lot of people do, and that's fucked up. It's not because I'm unromantic and anti anything cutesy. I can cutesy with the best of them. It's not even that impersonal financial concerns exploit the situation by packaging mass-produced kitsch for the unthinking to consume. It's that there are some things in life you just can't force. There's nothing endearing about a Pavlovian response to a media splash. Ooh, Valentine's day? Well, I love my lover so much more today! Let me buy her flowers and chocolates and take her out to a nice restaurant. Like Chris Rock says, some niggaz always trying to take credit for some shit they supposed to do. You made your girlfriend breakfast in bed? What do you want, a Noddy badge? You're supposed to, you stupid motherfucker!

Now if you make her breakfast in bed on some idle Tuesday, or surprise her at work with some flowers on some otherwise unremarkable day, that's romantic. That says I think about you when I don't have to, because I can't not. The only possible function of Valentine's Day is to desublimate a repressed relationship. That said, I quite like platonic Valentine's wishes. Dunno why, but I guess that seems less forced.

Anyway, picture me, circa 17:32 yesterday, running my ass off to organise new keys and buy a passable bunch of flowers that did not involve orange roses and yellow chrysanthemums wrapped with red ribbon. I don't want to get into it now, but where are these incredible flower arranging schools which encourage turning real cut flowers into something that looks like a plastic funeral arrangement? Seriously, people!

Now, I'd handed in my keys earlier that day, and forgotten to pick them up. This is not unusual for me - I have a great memory, but I don't pay attention. If you need a metaphor, I'm a foreign tourist who always forgets to use his camera because he's spellbound by his surroundings. So I get in the door, and this plump bald moustachioed dude ambles behind the counter. The following exchange ensues:

Geoff: Um, I brought my keys in earlier and forgot to pick them up.
Stache: Excuse me?
Geoff: [repeats self]
Stache: We close at five.
Geoff: [looks incredulously at open door]
Stache: I had to wait here because I don't know whose keys these are.
Geoff: Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise. Really sorry.
Stache: We close at five.
Geoff: Um, so sorry. Can I also have one of those remote thingies?
Stache: [expression indicates I have asked if his mother can service me sexually] Well, there are two kinds.
Geoff: I want that one. That one there.
Stache: There are two types.
Geoff: I want that one. No, not that one. The one next to it. Yes.
Stache: We won't take it back if it's the wrong one.
Geoff: I promise I won't come back if it's the wrong one.

Now, the one I got looks EXACTLY like the one I lost. I was so sure it was right I was all cocky, plus rushed for time, plus a little pissed off for being chewed out by someone I was giving R200 to. You know where this is going. It was the wrong one. There are no switches inside. I just wasted R140 on a lump of plastic I can't use. Because I was an asshole. Never be an asshole. There's no excuse, and you always pay.