It’s no coincidence that Valentine’s Day shares the same initials as Venereal Disease. They both come with a lot of discomfort, shame and anxiety.
Can you tell that I’m a hopeless romantic? I’ve got romance seeping from my veins, motherfuckers.
I know what you’re thinking. “This bitch just needs to get laid.” And you know what? You’re absolutely wrong. I get my lay on plenty. Really, when it boils down to it, my problem with V-Day is much like everyone else’s: Shut the fuck up and stop telling me that one day in the year I should be spending all this money on stupid pink and red crap that will get me NOWHERE closer to my ultimate goal of being a Sex Goddess. That’s everyone’s goal, right? No? Whatever. Shut up. It totally is.
Regardless of my general distain for the concept of the holiday, I’ve found myself attached this year and figured perhaps we would take part in something somewhat festive. After some brief brainstorming sessions and a stupid amount of back and forth texting with me declining pretty much every suggestion she made, I think we’ve come to the conclusion that Valentine’s Day is really just fucking dumb.
Everything that would qualify as romantic on an ordinary day suddenly seems cliché and douchetastic. If I woke up some random morning in May and found roses all over my room and a fun-filled day of sex and adventure planned, then FUCK ME SIDEWAYS I would be happier than a pre-teen skank at a 50% sale at Forever 21. But, on Valentine’s Day, these gestures feel forced. If you weren’t paying attention in the previous post, I don’t like it when people tell me what to do. Hallmark is telling me to shower my babyboo with love, affection and edible strawberry oil that tastes like cancer, and it makes me want to throw some slaps. (Come to think of it, that might just be the perfect gift... but you don’t need to hear those details. Let’s move along…)
Regardless of the ludicrousy (shut up, spellcheck! That’s a fucking word.) of horoscopes, I’ll admit that I get sucked into them from time to time. I want to disregard them and claim them all to be a giant pile of great fuckery, but I am a Pisces through and through and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, astrology gets me. (Stop judging me.) So, one slow afternoon at work, I found myself perusing a website that told me all about how my Piscean waterself is compatible with my Scorpion counterpart. What riveting literature! To my delight, below the detailed description of our passion and fervor was a list of suggestions on how to spend Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t pass this by, folks, I really couldn’t. So, in the spirit of the impending
blood bath lovefest, let me introduce:
Valentine’s Day Ideas
Brought to you by: The Biggest Asshat Website in the History of The Internet
On this Valentine’s Day reenact the first date of yours, followed by a walk with your palms clutched together, she'd definitely adore the idea of violins and a Valentine’s Day cake, if you can arrange. Make her feel loved by singing a love song for her on this Valentine’s Day. Do something which would move her, which would mesmerize her like making a photo collage of her which should showcase her in all moods. This would make her feel that how closely you observe her and know her.
Like women, even men like being pampered and spoiled, that's our take. So, this Valentine's Day even if you are bad at cooking, prepare his favorite dish and feed him with your own hands, even if you would have messed it up, he will never complain as the salt from your hands will make it even more delicious. Try to pen down some beautiful love poetry for him which would make him realize upto what extent you can go to express your love. This Valentine's Day become his best friend and share with shim your deepest thoughts and dreams and make him think that in your small nest, he owns a very prominent place.
SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.
I think this pretty much writes itself. I can hear the sound of all of your eyes rolling into your heads as you scanned those suggestions, but if any of you at any point thought “Hey, that’s a good idea” then I hate you. (Baaaaah, fine I don’t hate you, but seriously? SERIOUSLY? Go smear your salty hands over someone else’s food.)
I could spend an afternoon ripping through those piece’o’shit suggestions, but I’m going to hold back a bit because I know y’all have lives and whatever. There are, however, a few things I can’t let slide.
1) If you’re going to sit me down and sing to me about how you feel, things are going to get fucking awkward (especially if you can’t play an instrument). I would know, because when I was 17, I did it. I learned the hard way. Nothing is more uncomfortable than having a one person accapela version of Boyz II Men’s I’ll Make Love to You* sung to your face as you sit there silently. Seriously. Don’t do it.
*I did not sing that song when I was 17. I wrote my own song. It was shameful.
2) Don’t ever try to show a girl all of her moods via collage. She probably knows she’s a moody fucking bitch, and she doesn’t need you reminding her. That, my friend, is how you get a fork in your face.
3) That thing about the food? False. If you cook me something disgusting, the salt on your hands is not going to help. Also, why the fuck are your hands so salty? Do we need to take you to the doctor? Wash your hands more, you filthy motherfucker.
Here’s an idea: Stay in bed this Valentine’s Day, get your fuck on (or masturbate if you’re alone) and shove a shit ton of delicious food into your face.