This entry was posted on Thursday, February 14th, 2008 at 6:49 pm and is filed under General Word Vomit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
I had a slug of whiskey for breakfast today.
Though I suppose alcohol at 7am – on a weekday no less – could raise a few questions about my general stability, I rationalize that there are far worse things I could be ingesting. Like one of the many pink and white frosted donuts making the rounds in my office, for example, or perhaps a sugar cookie topped with little candy hearts. If the fat content didn’t do my heart in, the bile I’d be choking back most certainly would.
Much like New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day is one of those holidays that I feel compelled to if not celebrate, then at least acknowledge. It’s not as if it’s a real holiday, and the sentiment that accompanies it is typically about as manufactured as the boobs on a stripper. Yet the holiday is just so prevalent and so “everyone’s doing it” that I feel like the ultimate Grinch when I don’t at least smile when someone greets me with a chipper, “So, what are YOU doing for Valentine’s Day?”
Even Google has jumped on the bandwagon with its own sentimental claptrap. Really, the last thing I need to see is a cartoon of two old people running off into the sunset holding hands, especially when I only went to the site to google an exboyfriend to see if he’s as miserable as I am right now.
Were I a nicer and less bitter person this year, I’d probably be more inclined to succumb to my Martha Stewart instincts and churn out my own heart-shaped cookie contributions. But Valentine’s Day is a far cheerier holiday when you’re celebrating it with an actual person, as opposed to your cat and a bottle of Jack.
Several of my coworkers have received large flower bouquets today, which they’ve all displayed with pride on their desks. Frankly, each time I catch the scent of roses in the air I have to fight off the urge to “accidentally” knock the flowers to the floor and douse them with gasoline. Nothing would please me more than getting angry drunk on Jack right now and starting a new Valentine’s Day tradition that involves a book of matches, a pile of decorations, those fucking flowers and me, toasting marshmallows and humming Marilyn Manson’s “Beautiful People” under my breath.
It’s not that I want to deny any of the genuinely happy people their special day, lord knows I was one of them last year, but if they were all to drop off the face of the planet right now, I can’t say I’d be too upset. It might bring an end to all this overt sweetness and love, and I could go back to pretending I’m just fine being alone.
Of course, if rectifying my situation with someone specific is my ultimate goal, I might be better served to go about it in a different way. Maybe the breakfast Jack still has a hold on me, maybe the roses-that-are-not-mine are having a toxic effect on my decision making capabilities, or maybe I’m just that fucked up… but something possessed me to send the one who isn’t my guy a Valentine’s Day e-card that can only be described as unconventional.
There were no hearts, no cupids and no flowers. Just a graphic cartoon I’d swiped from i-mockery and the words, “Being raped underwater by pirate skeletons is still a valid way to celebrate Valentine’s Day.”
It seemed noncommittal and funny at the time, but I’m kinda guessing that a cartoon implying butt rape isn’t going to inspire him to rethink things between us.
And I wonder why I’m alone.