Another February 14 goes by and still I don't have that special someone that the greeting card and florist industries dictate I should spend it with. Or spend for. True, this is not your fault, you poor, long-dead, but strangely revered sap of a man, who was martyred for refusing to give up Christianity. (Or maybe you were the doctor that restored the jailer's daughter's sight, things can be so namby-pamby in Catholic history. I mean remember that Pope that was really a woman? What, you don't? They didn't teach you that in Sunday School?)
But anyway, so you were beheaded. Yeah, that's a pretty thing to remember on Valentine's Day. But you were interested in love, only it was that agape kind for god, not this eros kind everyone throws around so wantonly on February 14. It doesn't mean Hallmark can't reclaim it for something else though. (Sorry Nancy, but I'm right, aren't I?) I mean Jesus is all about Christmas ornaments, right? And he died on the cross to save us from a world without chocolate, which is what we celebrate at Easter, right?
Whatever. So today, on St. Valentine's Day, I work for what will likely amount to at least 12 hours, come home to my dog who's always appreciative of even my most annoying habits and thank god that I can relax without having too much to do with the expectations of my local florist and whatever sappy romantic-comedy is out in theatres now.
Really, I mean thank god for that.
Love,
your bitter li'l valentine.
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