Valentine’s Day is coming up, which means that it’s almost time for me to walk into a Hallmark store and light myself on fire.
Before you click back to your RSS reader and look for something less boring to read, let me assure you: I am not lamenting my single status. In fact, for once in my life, I am neither in a relationship and trying to get out of it, nor single and bummed out. I’m single and OK, which is weird, and probably healthy. (Well, all right, fine, when I had a really bad cold this week, I did sort of wish I had a boyfriend to bring me soup. That is, until Ma Smash reminded me that boys don’t bring soup. Mostly, they come over and offer to give you a backrub, which then becomes a front-rub, which then becomes a fight because you want soup, not rubs of any kind. I might’ve added that last part myself. Anyway, she made a good point and it made me feel better.)
No, the problem is that Valentine’s Day sucks, it sucks donkey balls, it sucks no matter who you are or what your relationship status is. It’s pretty much an excuse to spend money and feel inadequate, and in this way, is the quintessential American holiday. Even complaining about it probably makes me a communist.
Fortunately, by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around, I will have just finished Fashion Week and will be too tired to care.
PS: My favorite of these conversation hearts? “Fax me.”