(*I’m sure this list is one of those things for you, but regardless, I thank you for your time.)
Can we please agree right now that THE ONLY PEOPLE who should be allowed to be pissy about Valentine’s Day are PEOPLE WITHOUT PARTNERS? All you married people and people with long term lovahs, stop muddying the waters of my disenchantment by playing at being all grouchy about it! Why you gotta co-opt my hate-on when you’ve got a squeeze and I don’t? I guaranfuckingtee you you’re never going to be as pissed about the whole sitch as my spinster ass is. I will win that Bitter-Off.
I’m sorry if you don’t like the day and its concomitant gift-buying foolishness, but if you have a partner, you have already won Valentine’s Day and thus, your complaints always fall into the “it’s all commercial bullshit” vein (a criticism that has clearly just been recycled from Christmas), not the true, righteous hate of the “no one will ever be my partner and I will die alone with these cats eating my face” vein. The true Valentine’s Day hate is founded in loneliness, emptiness, lack of connection and a cold bed every night of your life. If you aren’t living that dusty-wombed truth, I put to you that you really don’t know what genuine Valentine’s Day hatred is, you are merely fronting on the genital curmudgeonliness that is my daily struggle, and I think you should have to address your Anti-Valentine’s Day sentiment by calling it something else, like “Buy Nothing Romantic Day.”
LET US HAVE OUR DAY OF RAGE, NON-SINGLE PEOPLE. You can hate every other day of the year if you like.
There is a new post on my secret blog. I don’t need that notification flag in my dashboard, thanks. I CREATED THE POST.
I mean, I’m all for licentiousness and seizing the carp and lord knows I’ve pumped my body full of untold and untested preservatives, but here’s what I did that I’m going to gloat about to all of you until the day I die:
July 8, 1996, I quit smoking. The first time. The only time.
I smoked at least a half pack a day for 10 years, but I have never smoked again since my quitday and I will never smoke again. The person that smoked is a different person. You will never, ever, ever see me smoke a cigarette. And, tiresome though it may sound, as a personal rule, I don’t help others bum smokes nor do I lend people money for cigarettes, nor do I even take their money and go purchase them on their behalf. I don’t smoke spliffs nor anything that involves tobacco. I will not even knowingly have one puff. My self-defined boundaries clearly prohibit that, and I’m kinda sorta super glad.
Nowadays, when someone asks me to hold a cigarette, I brandish it stiffly in front of me like an Ebola-infected blow torch that - if it doesn’t burn down the grain silos - will probably break Pa Ingalls’ heart.
OBVS, although I’m tobacco-free, I smoke weed with both a wild and purposeful abandonment, so judge me accordingly, but whenever I’m in some kind of personal crisis and I wonder if I can handle it, no matter what I need to do, I never doubt myself and my ability to just deal. Because I did that, and it was one of the hardest* things I ever trained myself to do.
And because I did that, I believe all the way down to my bones that I can do quite literally ANYTHING. Nowadays, every single time I need to do something and I’m not sure I have it in me, I say “BITCH, YOU QUIT SMOKING, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING,” and I straighten up and smile, because I CAN. Because of what I proved to myself 14 years ago, no matter what I need to make happen, I really believe I can.
HEZ PRO-TIP: ^THIS^
(*And the proudest. Hence this post. And you know what? All the smart girls agree.)