When I was younger, I used to abhor Valentine’s day, seeing it as little more than the idealization of my romantic hopelessness. Those Valentine’s days that were not spent in some depressed stupor, agonizing over some unrequited love, were instead spent relentlessly masturbating, my own tears serving as the lubrication. It was my most despised holiday, a time for ruminating in sullen angst, puffy-faced and alone.

But with age comes wisdom and experience, and now Valentine’s day represents something completely different. And while it is often accompanied with the same relentless masturbation, it is no longer an empty, quasi-depressive sort of relentless masturbation, but an unrelenting masturbation of joyous celebration. Now that I have experienced Valentine’s day with a date, along with its attendant responsibilities, I realize how foolish of me it was to disparage the holiday and resent being alone. This year, the obligatory fancy dinner, the half-hearted and uncomprehending attempts at romance, and the agony over the choice of gift were absent. I was not forced into some desperate pretense, to say suave and romantic things that are as natural for me as crapping out of my mouth, because I was alone. I did not have to endlessly search the malls for a gift, staring wide-eyed and afraid at the foreign and alien displays and trinkets, ultimately purchasing some overpriced perfume. No, this year I could masturbate—relentlessly—in peace. And for that I am glad.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 16th, 2009 at 12:29 AM and is filed under Humor. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.