St. Valentine is Cordially Invited to Consume My Engorged Genitalia
Valentine’s Day. Don’t care! Just another corporate holiday! Another case of the Man grabbing us by the ankles and shaking change loose from our pockets, spinning us around, and then telling us the right way to love one another. Use some chocolate as a tool. It’s a mathematical certainty: spending more and means you love her more. Sit like frogs on the front porch and pass her your gift, a box of chocolates from Laura Secord wrapped up in a scintillating red bow. She can smile and act surprised, hesitating to take the box from your hand in feigned humility. If you love her you’ll do it, and if you prefer watching college football in your undershorts on a Monday after microwaving some chicken wings for dinner, you won’t. But you see this guy here? Doesn’t care! You see, I’m holding out for someone who cares as little for Valentine’s day as I do. Yes, that’s it.
I am back from San Francisco and tired. Very little is up, except that I finally thought to inflict searing pain on my earlobes for a change.
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(2 comments)
Bah…ye bitter fuck!
Correct, sir! I’m consoling myself with the Wu-Tang DVD and a cool Maudite. Sing to me, Ol’ Dirty.