because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Change of Heart.


I'm not really a fan of Valentine's Day. I'm not sure if I have mentioned how forced, sentimental emotion wrapped in cheap heart-speckled cellophane kind of makes me want to overdose on adult Calpol and have my stomach pumped by an overweight German woman with halitosis and unshaven armpits, who keeps me from slipping into death's hold by whispering odored sweet nothings into my ears and licking my face with the tip of her disgusting tongue.

Oh, I have? I'm sorry.
I don't mean to repeat myself. I was temporarily dumbed down by the flashes and pink and red and cerise and shiny tin-foil covered, overpriced, chocolates. And by the thought of Frau Fleisher. EXCUSE ME. 

My friends are aware that the 14th of February isn't my favourite day either. I woke up to a plethora of messages and emails from friends wishing me a wonderful day.

As you are probably aware it is your least favourite day of the year today, so I thought I would send you some holiday cheer to help get you through, said my camp-as-Christmas friend. Yeah, I replied. Don't choke on your Lovehearts will you dear chap?

Happy Valentine's Day! another friend said over the phone. Fuck off and die, I replied.

But then something quite special happened. A person who will now have a special place in my black, cold heart forever made a card for her boyfriend. It was glittery and sparkly on the outside, handmade with love and care and other positive and maternal emotion that apparently is necessary to get lucky on this particular day of the year rather than any other where a belly rub and dinner at Chuck-E-Cheese will do, and then BAM! Inside up popped a cut-out of a hand holding up its middle finger. HAPPY FUCKING VALENTINE'S DAY the message said, as the finger bobbed up and down, mockingly. And the message in the card? If anybody has to give me the finger then I'm glad it's you.


Now that's my kind of Valentine.
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