I was hoping to blissfully ignore the world’s lamest holiday this year, but the couple sitting across from me at the Clear Conscience Cafe right now are making that impossible. They’ve been snoogling on the couch for the past half hour, kissing each other’s hair and wrapping legs over legs. And the real coup came when the girl grabbed her boy’s coffee mug and poured it into his mouth for him.

If there is ever a point in time when I see fit to feed another person coffee (unless both of their arms are broken or they are The Human Torso), please find me, throw me in a sack, and throw that sack off a cliff.

I just don’t get it. I don’t get it. There should be a holiday where couples give single people presents as thanks for putting up with their ootsyness and marrying and sofa-picking-out all year.

As for me, I plan to spend my Valentine’s night spitting black bile into a flaming cauldron, mixing that up with frog spawn and battery acid, then pouring the whole batch at random out of my apartment window. And cackling. Did I mention cackling?

Listening to: “Sentimental Heart” – Zooey Deschanel

Random thoughts for Valentine’s day, 2004: Today is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap.
~ Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Like fictional and non-fictional single people everywhere, Valentine’s Day makes me do the brooding thing. I know it’s a stupid fucking holiday. And this post is going to be really, really trite and I apologize for it in advance.
It’s just, this love thing….I don’t get it. At least, not on a personal level. I don’t get how two people–No, wait, let me amend that. I don’t get how myself, specifically, and someone else, generally, could fit together. Match. Or whatever. Make a pair. I don’t get how a person could have the patience, and the desire, to be with one person all the time. I sabotage every relationship I’m in because I get bored. Really really fast.

But I know a lot of people who are in love, who are committed to each other, who aren’t searching for the quickest, sneakiest way out. So it exists; it’s not some product of the Hollywood machine, or some other institution, or what-have-you. It’s a thing, A REAL THING, like Divine eating the dog shit in Pink Flamingos. It happens to real people. Love, I mean. Not dog shit. Well, dog shit happens to people too. Actually, dog shit happens to me all the time. Just not love.

Heh. The one time I was in a relationship during Valentine’s Day, he didn’t even come to see me. He sent me a text message that said, and I quote verbatim: “Happy VD, btw.”

It was a wise god who made sure that “Valentine’s Day” and “venereal disease” had the same initials.