A treatise on behalf of the rest of us…

The worst part of Valentine’s Day, contrary to popular belief, is NOT being single. Oh no. I dance with stellar on a regular basis. For instance, today I had class in NYC  taught by a critically acclaimed memorist AND I didn’t get stranger dangered on the LIRR. I rediscovered some albums from undergrad on the drive home and lo and behold, they still rocked. My roommates gave me snack cakes. I had a glass of 2005 Chardonnay with organic mac n’ cheese. I have a cold. Theoretically speaking, I had a good effing day. It was the kind of day you want to keep to yourself for a rainy moment. And I had every intention to do so.

The worst part of Valentine’s Day is sloughing through the various social media sites, which lend themselves to devilry and a procrastination on a regular day, only to read about how good YOUR day was. How expensive the bouquet was, and how big the life-size snufflelufugus was, and how you loooooooooooove your boyfriend/husband/girlfriend/wino you met on the street one day and had a connection with. And oh-my-nutter-butters, aren’t I one of the lucky ones?

No. You aren’t. You’re fucking annoying. You make the rest of us feel like shit. Then, take that sentiment and multiply it by half of your friends’ list on Facebook. In the twenty gushy lines you took to talk about about the overpriced macaroons your boyfriend bought from Nicaragua, you shat on the feeble life line of my semi-respectable day. How is this fair?

And before you say the lady doth protest too much, I’m not bitter. How do I know? I thought this was cute, albeit a tad creepy.

Maybe there’s hope for next year, but I won’t hold my breath. The founder of Hallmark has a kid that needs braces, I think, and we’re in a recession. We all have needs. And at the end of the day, I’m of the generation where a good bagel is worth a lengthy post.

See: photos of your zygotes, newborns, and infants.