Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Stupid Cupid, the Bitterness Bash, Black Heart Day, I missed all those parties on Valentine's Day.

I met someone and had to miss out on all the fun.

Goshfuckit, I thought I would finally have a chance to join the millions of spinsters who do it peanutbuttery with their dogs and the lonely hearts jacking off to Britney videos. For sure, this year, I thought, I, too, would finally get drunk and sleep with a pimple-assed stranger.

But no.

Why, God?

Why do I have to get flowers delivered to the office and three boxes of Godiva chocolates?

Why can't I be like everyone else and pig out on Oreos and then barf them all out thanks to Mr. Toothbrush?

Why do I have to be the most envied girl in the office?

I only asked to be a wallflower, God! Why are you doing this to me?

I thought I would die of boredom from all the comfort of that back massage. I mean, it went on for an hour and all those thoughts of "no girl is as lucky as I am to have you" were killing me. Those cricks are gone! I feel perfectly fine! I'm going to kill myself!

Then the jerk announced he got us tickets to the Bahamas. A four-star hotel, that's what he booked us.

While everyone else is spending the week after Valentine's Day crying their hearts out that nobody loves them, I'll be lounging on a beach with one of those tropical drinks. With an umbrella in it. He'll be rubbing suntan lotion all over me and telling me how much he loves me.

Just the thought of my body out on the beach for everyone to see - flawless, not a touch of cellulite...I feel like such an outcast. I want to wear sweatshirts and jogging pants for the rest of my life.

I sometimes wonder if plastic surgery would be the answer; you know, more wrinkles, a vat-ful of lard injected into my thighs, maybe a masectomy?

You, know, I even suspect he may propose on this trip. He dropped another diamond ring into my champagne at the country club last night. I swallowed it as usual and pretended nothing happened.

Why does this always have to happen to me? How come I'm the only one getting married to a rich Norse beefcake? How come I won't be spending my old age as a lonely bag lady?

Please, please, let me just once taste the bitterness of leaving the fifth message on his answering machine and not having him call me back when he said he would. Just once in this lifetime, I want to cry myself to sleep -- shit, he's calling me agaaaaaain.

I hope it's not "I want to know how your day went." He's so fucking sincere about it too, that's what bugs me.

Just once. Please. Let me be like everyone else and watch the Shopping Network with a pail of Haagen Dazs on my lap. Just one Valentine's Day, in this lifetime. Please.

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