An increasing amount of nauseating material circulates the interweb around the romantic holiday. People are dropping hints, declaring their love and generally being all round happy and romantic. I saw grown man skipping in the street yesterday after parting from a young (ish) lady. I don’t know if I should to go awww or blurgh.
Don’t get be wrong, I love a bit of romance like the next person. I once received a dozen red roses after a second date and was blown off my feet. An earlier post I have made about my love of mix-tapes explains how treasured I think that exchange is. But Valentine’s day is full of corny one-liners and cheap gifts invented purely to make you part with your money, not as a form of a romantic aphrodisiac. A journalist? How about these stale expressions? Part1 & Part 2
The irony is if you were a decent lover, and you are properly in love, you would be creating overblown romantic gestures like this proposal made via light writing. You don’t need Clinton’s cards to tell your beloved how you feel, or an excuse to do it on a certain day. You would be doing it anyway all the way through your relationship.
And most importantly, love is free. It shouldn’t cost any money to express it. It should be from the depths of your heart, not the depths of your pocket.
However, I do think Valentines day is cute when viewed through the eyes of a child. Their love notes are honest, innocent and unassuming, the way love should be declared.
But if you do need a cliqued reminder that you couldn’t actually live without your better half, make sure you don’t take them to Ikea as this brilliant article suggests. And stay away from those £1 nipple tassels; you will only take someone’s eye out.
But finally, valentines day is your funeral, single or not.
This is quite a funny post that comically puts romantics into words better than I ever could.
Just in case you are wondering, I am not bitter. There are vase of pink roses sitting in my living room downstairs and I received a Valentines card. Luckily the sender not only has rathergood taste , but knows me well enough to know that I am a sucker for a Ginger Tom Cat.
In reality; the roses I bought for £1.30 in the reduced section in Tesco on Tuesday, so are now are starting to resemble something as shrivelled and decaying as Hugh Hefner’s balls. Furthermore, nothing screams desolation more that your mother sending you your only valentine to subconsciously say; “Don’t worry if no-one loves you. Someone has to, and because you came from my womb, it has to be me.” Add to that the fact that I have been recently described by two different men as ‘threatening’ and ‘scary,’ we have the ingredients for a textbook night in with other single girlfriends philosophising the eternal questions of love that have puzzled womankind for centuries. Oh the joy.