There is only one thing worse than the day before Valentine’s, and that is–
The Aftermath of Valentine’s Day, otherwise known as the day people leave their chocolates out too long on the kitchen counter, the day someone forgot to water their flowers, the day we decided we don’t give a shit about St. Valentine, only those who stole our hearts. Ah, how sweet–you want some syrup with that? Maybe some cinnamon?
I love watching couples in my high school on the day of affection as compared to the following one. In the morning, as I was walking in from the parking lot, there must have been–gee–twenty or so guys, some of them dressed up pretty snazzily, carrying gifts bags and Russel Stover chocolate hearts; of course, they went up to their girls and shocked them. I am sure they were hoping for kisses, but, as the world is strange, only received the typical “Oh, you are so sweet!” and a partially affectionate hug.
In that situation, I would have said, “Yeah, you want some syrup with that, baby?”
Only jokes on my part; however, because, you see, I have yet to kiss a girl myself. Oh, boo hoo, boo hoo–let’s get back to the post, shall we?
On Valentine’s Aftermath, same place, same me walking in from the parking lot, I see the same couples chatting happily away and practically groping themselves in the corner where they think teachers will not see, and the mood is mellow, to say the least. Gone is the romantic, pubescent tension that makes the rest of us, including me, puke a little in my mouth–did I eat carrots today?–and eradicated is the duty of the man to gift to his woman a lifetime, maybe more of an eight-hour school day, supply of delicious chocolates and roses that have a peculiar smell.
Where did you pick these up, honey? They smell funny.
Ah, you know, I went to Wal-Mart, grabbed a batch from this old guy outside the store. Great deal.
One thing I wish that changed from Valentine’s Day is the amount of smooching and I-must-kiss-your-neck-like-a-dog. Some were grabbing each other’s asses–what, is there a Staples button from the early 2000’s implanted in her butt cheeks? You like hearing “That was easy” so much you hired a plastic surgeon to mold its shape and a computer geek to install wires?
Farting must be hell, seriously; it’s like Yoda squeezed his way in there and said “well, shit, this ain’t Dagobah, but it’s my home now. Ooh, Staples button!”
Do I wish for too much? Is my Fairy Godmother hitting the trail because I’m pressing her budget? Sorry, Oprah Winfrey; I guess you don’t make all my wishes come true. Time to call back Betty White.
Even though the Aftermath has its perks, I still love the classic: the hugging and the kissing and the I-love-you’s and the I-hate-you’s–
Whoa, where’d we go there?
I think some of my nightmares leaked into my dreams.
Or is the other way around?