Happy Valentine's Day. HVD. Yipes. Sounds like an STD. For some, the excitement can be contagious. For me, well, it's just kind of like a nasty sore that keeps coming back.
Always one to look at the bright side, though, I am focusing on the benefits of not being on the receiving end of anybody's undying love and devotion or floral deliveries (FTD -- another insidious disease). There will be no rose petals littering my table, no impossible to open packets of flower food to ruin my manicure. I will not be stuffing myself silly with rich food at some fancy restaurant packed with couples gazing lovingly at each other over glasses of wine. I will not have to suffer through a break out of menopausal acne after overindulging in expensive chocolates.
Less bloat, clearer skin, no rosy mulch to wipe away. It don't get any better than that! I have yet to find a Hallmark card that adequately expresses my true sentiments. A friend sent me an email this morning with some samples of Valentines messages that cut to the chase and eliminate some of the bullshit. "Don't forget that blow jobs are like flowers for men." Hard cold facts. I like that. "I want to grow old and disgusting with you." I find such honesty refreshingly romantic, scintillatingly intimate. "There's nobody I'd rather spend this annual obligation with than you." Beats the crap out of most of the stuff in the card aisle at Walgreens.
"Why settle for Mr. Right when you could have Mr. Restraining Order?" Now there's a thought provoking question I can sink my teeth into. A far better intellectual exercise, certainly, than "Will you be my Valentine?" A simple "yes or no" question -- yawn. Where's the opportunity for discussion, for critical dialogue? No matter what the answer, the result is the same; someone will get screwed, one way or another.
Oh, dear. I hope I don't sound bitter. To all my blog fans, here's a heartfelt ditty: Hope your Valentine's Day isn't all that shitty.
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