Chris Hudspeth: You’re basically the awkward but hot person every Gen Y is desperately trying to emulate.
After all, capitalism and jewelry and flowers and candy and “stuff” seem to dictate what this day is about. But that’s only if you let it.
YOU DON’T NEED TO PROPOSE TO ANYONE ON THIS DAY.
Basically, you have to be the dateable 21st century version of Jesus.
Do not think of befores, or afters, or right nows, let your mind go blank, go black, think ‘nothing’ so fervently that nothing becomes something, that nothing becomes everything.
There is one element that all of my failed relationships share. Through all the many variations of womanhood that I have been familiar with, but a single thread carries through all of these dalliances. They involved a heavy amount of physical intimacy.
If in a far-flung future when the Earth has died, leaving only minefields of shattered Gorilla glass and the vomited innards of machines, the corpses of wireframe creatures with wires spilt out on the blasted land like entrails, let’s say some foreign species arrives and combs our data ghosts in order to divine the purpose of Valentine’s Day.
I gave Brittnee — the first girl I ever kissed on the mouth — a cheap ass necklace with a heart pendant from K-Mart, I think, and also a Train CD. (She dug “Meet Virginia.”)
So I’ve never once had a relationship begin with something grand and romantic, like I came to expect from the movies, and I figured the same was true for most other people, as well. The opening lines of my relationships span from sweepingly idiotic to mundane, and while there are some sweet ones in there, too, they certainly don’t make up the majority — nor did they predict future success and compatibility.
Listen, I want you to truly appreciate my sustained effort to pretend to be a reasonable human being. I’ve gone days without texting you, multiple days without texting you, three whole days without texting you. The cumulative willpower illustrated by this should leave your mind utterly boggled, exceedingly boggled.