So, here it is again. Valentine’s Day. The day of alleged love. The day when single people self-harm and lovers spread magical love juice around the world. The day my friends and their other halves collectively let out cold-ridden sighs at the mention of the date. The day you see couples out in the restaurants enjoying the over-priced set menu and strained conversation that’s making them both bleed from the eyes.
It’s all love, love, love.
It seems to me that even though both people in a relationship can be pained to celebrate such nonsense, both feel that if no effort is made by either party, something has been disastrously mis-placed. This can often lead to public displays of hysteric crying, walking ten-feet apart, and – in worst-case scenarios – the ‘silent’ treatment.
Ahhhh romance, and the pleasures of being a slave to the corporate calendar.
These days, where as being in a relationship appears to be a choice, being single is a choice people are choosing to take. Offering such perks as peace and quiet, being single means our generation often take the leap for career purposes, or niche hobbies that cannot be shared – like being a serial killer. One would struggle to seriously be committed to a relationship and have such an illustrious hobby. Surely it can’t be done. Put that cake down, you can’t have it and eat it.
Not everyone of course believes single life to be a choice (disgusting smelly people for example). Some members of the female faction are still stuck in their ways. I often witness non-single women offering pitying looks and smiles to single women upon discovering their relationship status (in real life not on Facebook). This makes me sad. I mean, c’mon lady, we all know that look is a façade. That pitying look and smile is actually full of hatred. You secretly hate the single women with their tight vaginas and new clothes. But why? It’s not their fault your fella thinks of them when he sticks his man-stick in you for an ankle-shuddering two minutes. And hey, it’s not your fault either. You’re a secret eater. It’s just how it goes. They made a life choice and so did you. In fact, their life choice consists of alcohol abuse and a shrinking uterus, followed by a mass intake of cats and anger towards all those who spread joy.
You both chose unhappiness, but in very different ways. Yay!
Of course, there are other factors to be taken into account on Valentine’s Day. Like those poor Postmen who have the fateful job of delivering sack loads of cards to my door. Have you ever given a thought to them? It’s not good on their back you know. So much so that in the recent fifteen years, the postal service has taken it upon itself to stop all deliveries of Valentine’s cards to my house. I haven’t received confirmation as such, but I guess that’s the reason I don’t get any cards these days. It’s got to be. I mean, how else can you explain it? right?.. Guys? …What?…Oh, okay, maybe the reason I don’t get any cards is because no-one actually sends me any cards. But, in some ways, it’s a relief. Who wants to be ploughing through card after card anyway? After which your flat is one big fire hazard haunted by the ghost of a tree. Nah, trust me guys, it’s better – and safer – this way.
But, for all those who do celebrate Valentine’s – be it the hapless couple exchanging looks of disgust and boredom, or the single folk crying into their soup as they choke on their own loneliness – I hope you have a lovely time. And remember, when the man you’re with spends the entire evening staring at the waitress’ arse; it’s only because he loves you.
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