An Ode to Valentine’s Futility.

I hate Valentine’s Day.

Now this isn’t just because I’m currently single, OH NO. My commitment to hating Valentine’s Day is such that I’ve hated it when I’ve been in relationships, when I’ve had fulfilling ‘romances’ and when my head has been nauseatingly immersed in unyielding obsession over someone’s amazingness, floral smelling farts….and sexy eyes.

I don’t see the romance in Valentine’s Day, at least not how it’s marketed. I wander past Clinton’s during February staring at the pitifully manufactured red hearts, card verses and teddy bears and all I imagine is some boring middle aged twat in a suit rubbing his sweaty hands together with glee. Sales are up, he can upgrade his Bentley to a new model. Maybe hang an air freshener from the rear view mirror that’s knitted from the stray pubic hairs of Queen Elizabeth.

To me receiving flowers and chocolates as a medium of expressing love is akin to grabbing a McDonald’s drive thru when you’re hungry. The gratification is instant, it does the job, it appears exciting and novel, you’re smacked off your tits on joyous chemicals but the quality however, means it wouldn’t be out of place in a sticky bin. It’s so painfully unimaginative.

Thankfully, I’ve always been with blokes who have understood this and felt the same way. Call me high maintenance, but PEOPLE why not smear their name in your own blood, tattoo their name on your forehead or cut a heart into your penis? I think these are so romantic. What about a poem? a song? a mix tape? Now I’ve had these before and looking back they were terrible, but trust me when you adore someone so much you’d drink their bathwater, whatever they create seems like it was made with the same abilities as Keats or Nick Cave. Appreciation of your partner only expires upon the honeymoon period being over or the dreaded ‘Break Up’, it’s because of this you should take full advantage.

One mix tape I got began with ‘Suck You Dry’ by Mudhoney, which really killed two birds with one stone. I could gyrate badly around the room while my potential boyfriend had his feelings for me fully explained to some excellent rhythms. The sentiment was terribly straightforward, but still..

“This book is a bomb,

It sleeps in my bed,

These words are ours,

Ones they’ve never read.”

Extract from the truly awful song an ex in a punk band wrote about me. He still plays it, apparently. I was elated at the time, I truly thought we were Sid and Nancy. I wanted us to wear vials of each other’s blood around our necks, I’d have cleaned up his puke while giggling like a schoolgirl. LOVE IS BLIND, DEAF AND UNHINGED, PEOPLE.

And they say I’m not romantic.

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About braingristle

Girl. Brain full of whimsy, imagination full of peril.
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