Happy Valentines Day, Jerk
You’ve probably already noticed the heart-shaped chocolate boxes and pink and red streamers draped over storefront, but in case you’ve forgotten (or are consciously ignoring it, either one seems pretty likely in your case), let me be the first to tell you: it’s Valentine’s Day, asshole.
What’s that? Oh, please don’t worry about getting me flowers or the aforementioned heart-shaped chocolates — obviously, only someone who cares about another person would bother with such mainstream forms of affection. Really, I understand. Valentine’s Day as a concept just goes against your whole locavore ethos, and it probably couldn’t stand up to any research on those weird — sorry, fascinating — Internet forums you like to quote. This is just a stupid holiday made up by the greeting card industry and capitalism in general to celebrate love – and who would want to do that when we could just have sex and listen to your obscure records? That’s a much more authentic way of showing love, I’m sure.
I mean, it’s not like this is my birthday (which, by the by, was last week — I’m still waiting on a gift or a card or something). We just have that unspoken bond, right? The kind of bond that means you never have to introduce me to your friends as anything but “Oh yeah, this is, um, Anna.” The kind of bond that’s built around 3 a.m. text messages with too many y’s at the end of “hey,” and unspoken agreements never to leave anything behind on the rare nights you do allow me to stay over instead of making me walk home at 5 a.m.; the stuff of truly modern love, if you will.
After all, it’s not like I need to do anything for you either, right? This is such an effortless, easy relationship that the only end of the bargain I need to keep up is shaving my legs, and occasionally accompanying you to those warehouse shows in the middle of nowhere. Even if it means standing awkwardly against the wall while you crack jokes with the band members about the last warehouse show, which you’ve forgotten I was also at. Such are the sacrifices that love demands.
I mean, could you imagine anything more uninspired than going out for dinner tonight, calling each other “baby” and then enjoying some wine by the fireplace together (followed by sex that’s actually mutually satisfying for once)? Even if you didn’t object to the environmental devastation caused by fireplaces, it would just be way too menial and low-brow to celebrate in such a commonplace way. Besides, I’m sure your home-brewed stout with essence of coriander is way better than any overpriced wine, and who even needs to eat out when there’s leftover Chinese takeout in the fridge?
So please, don’t worry about doing anything for me, or wishing me a Happy Valentine’s, or even adding me to the blast list of an ironic e-card featuring a dancing heart. And in return, I won’t worry about shaving my legs for the foreseeable future –and that’s a promise.
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It started with a right swipe, a little green heart. Tinder of course.
Though I acknowledge and appreciate the differences in human experiences, and while your heartbreak is (and always will be) uniquely and completely your own, I must urge you to consider that I have been where you are.
With his hat cocked back, body tilted away from his cane, and right forefinger pointing directly at his audience, Joseph Ducreux commands the attention of those viewing his self-portrait.
I was born in 1990; he was born in 1973. I’m 23; he just turned 40.