Valentine’s Day, the most awful non-holiday of them all. That one special day throughout the entire year where the world embarks upon a mad frenzy to push chocolates, cliché flowers and terrifying stuffed animals with painfully dead expressions that just scream, “Love me”. The day where half the population emits a cancer causing lovey-dovey sickening radiation that poisons everything in its path, and the other half complains about it as loud as humanly possible. In the spirit of impartial equality, I hate both sides equally.
At this point you’re probably imagining me as some sort of cynic, the guy whose past relationships are far more similar to a failed North Korean nuclear test than they are to anything resembling “healthy”. I’ll choose not to comment on those allegations. Much like the Grinch who stole Christmas, my heart is just a few sizes too small to even pretend to give half a darn about this venereal disease of Hallmark holidays.
I guess that this is just how we’ve chosen to display affection in our culture, through the giving of cancer causing candy hearts and the forced distribution of generic, overpriced cards. (For the sake of my optimistic demeanor, I’ll choose not to speculate on what that says about us as a society.) I suppose I should just be thankful that we don’t live in a time period where presenting a severed goats head to your lover was the accepted standard of “love offerings”. As if the experience needed to be any more horrific.
I just never really saw the point of singling out one day in particular to express affection. But I suppose if we felt the need to disperse our terrifying public displays of love across the entire year then the tacky stuffed animal market would collapse.
That’s not to say that I’ll be flying solo for V-Day 2013. It’s just that my date is vaguely bottle shaped and comes with a warning from the Surgeon General stuck to “her” neck. Plus if it doesn’t work out between us, she’s got five other friends in my fridge.
I’ll even do you all a favor and refrain from commenting on the insanity of it all. (On Valentine’s Day I mean, I’m getting paid for this caustic commentary.) Though I do privately loathe the horrors of Valentine’s Day, that doesn’t mean that I’ll spend my evening vengefully throwing rocks at happy couples in the park. That would be insane, and a serious waste of good rocks.
It just means that I most likely won’t be bringing anyone back to my dorm later in the evening. Mostly because the UAA laundry room is a scam and I have half-dry underwear hanging up all around my room. In my experience damp clothing strewn everywhere tends to be a deal breaker. Unless you’re into that, in which case call me.
So, while all you disgustingly happy people hold hands, gaze soulfully into each other’s eyes and throw around the word “forever,” keep in mind that Rose said that too, and Jack still sunk with the rest of the wreckage of the Titanic. It would appear that “I’ll never let go, Jack” is a fairly subjective statement.
I, however, don’t have to worry about things like that because I’m spending my Thursday evening watching John McClane gun down what appears to be the majority of the Russian Mafia in the new Die Hard. I feel sure that I’m playing into some marketing executive’s scheme to make money from the single cynics, but I’ll overlook it due to my intense bout of 80s nostalgia.
Yes, my day will be filled sloth videos, Lost reruns and Die Hard references, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I get to be wonderfully oblivious to the frenzied mayhem of the outside world and use my time to catch up with what’s been going happening on the Island. So all you despicably happy couples and loudmouth sad singles, you’d be wise to stay away from my dorm.
Don’t make me get my rocks.