Let’s be honest.
Sometimes relationships are harder than bending the fabric of space and time and travelling into the future.
You see, at least if time travel was possible you would know what the next few years would hold. In a relationship, you don’t even know what the next few hours will be like.
In one moment, its farting rainbows and dancing unicorns, then BOOM, the unicorn dies and you realise that farts actually smell.
What I would give to have one of those eighties Say Anything inspired romances where a boom box was the only thing that was needed to sort out differences.
Alas, movies are the stuff of fiction. Even Stella who got her groove back ended up with a gay man. I’m beginning to think that the stuff of happiness includes a very dear friend with batteries and prescription Adcodols.
But, even though I am content with my version of happiness (when I am really drunk), a part of me still screams for the kind of commitment that love songs inspire. It seems like the only person who understands me is myself.
Wait a minute, that’s it! I love myself. Shouldn’t it be enough?
Apparently it isn’t according to my very tactful gay friend, Beyoncé:
“Because honey, you would look awfully lonely. Cheer up doll,” he said as he continued to spew his wisdom upon me like Mount Vesuvius.
“If Lindsay Lohan could survive her spaced-out crack-whore days then, darling, you can survive 14th February.”
Yeah right, spoken by someone who actually has a date for the pending doomsday of the singletons.
While I find nothing wrong with couples donning their Bi-polar high vision glasses and doing the whole Valentine’s Day fanfare, I can’t help but gag a little at the double standards of it all.
I am surrounded by little heart shaped candy and bombarded with Valentine’s Day specials.
Would it be so terrible if I spoiled myself instead of waiting in vain for my ex to stand under my window with a ghetto blaster playing In your eyes like Lloyd did in the Say Anything?
Who said this day should be about smoochy faced couples in love and all that blah blah that comes along with the territory.
Why can’t I be my own valentine?
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