It’s that bloody time again.
Pink hearts with “I love you” emblazoned across them in bright fuchsia letters. Kissy-faced stuffed animals, wearing nauseating “I’m yours!” t-shirts. Sickly salmon balloons and flowery cards, all asking the same question: “Will you be my Valentine?”
No way.
To hell with Valentine’s Day. I hate it.
I hate the way it takes over the world, making the most sensible people go lovey-dovey and mushy in the brain. I hate the way couples look at you around Valentine’s Day, with that ‘oh-you-poor-single-sap’ expression of pity and scorn.
I hate the way it overruns stores, and I hate the hearts, the confetti, the cupids, the candy and the cards with their stupid, stupid puns.
But most of all, I hate how it paints the whole world pink.
Pink?!
The color of socks accidentally dyed in the laundry? The color of a mystery-solving panther? The color of five-year-old girls? The color of pigs, for christsake?
That’s the color of love?
Yeah, right.
Come Feb. 14, I don’t see pink anymore. I see red – and it ain’t no “roses are red” crap either. It’s blood red.
What’s with this pathetic excuse for a holiday? Why does it even exist?
Being too nauseous from the color scheme to enjoy the last twenty or so Feb. 14s, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve come up with quite an assortment of conspiracy theories.
Maybe an enterprising Hallmark exec thought it up to drum up business in the sales slump between New Year’s and Easter.
Maybe some crazed, evil schoolteacher invented it to brainwash kids into thinking love is a popularity contest.
Or maybe it was aliens. Big, mean, pink ones.
Who knows? Who cares? None of my theories change the simple fact that the day exists, or that no one has yet to find a single reason to justify its horrible existence.
I ask you. What good does it do? None – and a lot of ill to boot!
We spend half the month dazed in pink hearts, thinking about ‘looove’ and romance. Not until the 15th or so does it dawn on the card companies and their diligent customers that – “oh my! It’s Black History Month!” – and that’s assuming they can make it past the half-priced candy aisle.
As though that’s not enough, there’s the sharp, suicidal plummet in the self-esteem of singles everywhere. Literally. More people consider suicide in February than any other month. Wonder why?
Me personally, I blame it on the color scheme. It’s a virtual Pink Scare out there, an optical attack, and it frightens the more sensitive folks to death.
I’ll survive though. I’ll just hole up in my room with a case or two of beer, a book, and a few packs of cigarettes.
But if one more person asks who my ‘special someone’ is, I’m gonna reenact the ol’ St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. And I’ll use the real definition of pink – to stab with a sharp, pointed object.
Happy V-Day! Heh, heh…