Daisies for Francis

Her home was perched on the peak of a hill that happened to hold the very last patch of daisies in the entire world. Nonetheless, she picked one daisy each day in order to play, “she loves me, she loves me not” upon her green bump in the middle of the wasteland.

One day, Francis plucked a particularly fine daisy and, just before conducting her ritual, became overcome with sadness. Clearly, her days with daisies were numbered. They regrew so slowly and her oasis was growing barren. Enough rehearsal—it was time Francis found true love.

Francis readied herself. Holding the daisy gently in one hand, she reached for the first petal. “He loves me, he loves me not.” On she went until one petal remained.

Francis knew if she plucked the final petal, she'd have to admit, "He loves me not." But she couldn't do it. "It's just a game," she said. "It means nothing. Daisy petals aren't binding contracts with the universe." Still, she tossed the flower aside. "Loves me," she insisted.

Francis walked down the street, ignoring a flowerbed of daisies that spelled out "LOVES ME NOT". She bought a box of Sweethearts candy that somehow all read "NOT!" But she couldn't ignore the Goodyear blimp flying overhead with the LED sign reading "Girl, No, Wake Up!"