So, we did it. Another Valentine’s Day came and went, and today I am just as single as I was yesterday, and the day before. Oh fucking well. Since I’m not in highschool, I’ve passed the “I’m wearing black today in protest!” stage of my life, and entered into the “bottle of champagne for 1” phase of my life.
It’s only slightly more self-destructive/attention whoring. I made it through the majority of the day with only limited suicidal ideations and didn’t weep to Adele’s 21 so I really considered in a rave success. Luckily all 7 packages I ordered off Amazon for myself not so coincidentally arrived on Valentine’s, so I have tricked my doorman and building into thinking I am the most desired woman this side of the Mississippi. +10 for me, but -2 because it’s still kind of pathetic.
But by circa 10:00pm, my facebook wall was just being absolutely sodomized by pictures of flowers, candy and engagements (BARF) from girls boyfriends/husbands/pimps and enough was enough. Every girl has a breaking point, and considering my existing emotional damage has left some pretty deep cracks, I couldn’t deal with it anymore. If I wanted to look at pictures of roses all day, I’d move back to New Jersey and spend a day in the Ed Hardy tshirt outlet or re-watch the Rock of Love Bus, Season 3. Something had to be done. Since I’m a brat, I’ve been begging my parents for Range Rover for the past couple of months, and while I think I am starting to wear them down, negotions are still on the table aka I don’t fucking have it yet. But my extreme rich bitch request was the perfect set up for this move I am about to tell you about. In order to upstage all these stupid 1-800-FLOWERS posts, I uploaded a picture of a tan Range Rover sitting in a driveway, with the caption “Truly Happy Valentines Day to me! Thanks Dad, Love You.” Upload button…Click.
I just sat back, twiddled my thumbs for a minute, and let the public outcry begin. I shit you not, within ten minutes, I was inundated with calls, texts, and messages, all to the effect of “wow, you fucking bitch. Jealous.” It even got my mostly off an on again special friend to text me on Valentine’s Day, which I am sure he was avoiding talking to me like the plague (cant say I blame him). He said, “Wow, if you got that, I would seriously kill myself.” Glad he knows exactly how I feel after every time I bone him…but I digress. After an hour or so of silence on my part and gloating in my revelry, I decided that while the dream was nice, the jig was up and it was time to clear the air. My expertly crafted response was as followed:
1. That’s not even my house, mines bigger. 2. This car is like a 2008, ew. 3. I like my cars like everything else, white, duh. 4. I wanted to post something slightly more voyeuristic than all the flowers I saw on my newsfeed today, and 5. HAPPY VDAY SUCKERS.
Everything I write on Facebook is certifiable gold regardless, but I really outdid myself with that comment. Of course it got a million likes, which is an internet measurement of love, and it just reaffirmed to myself that no one could love me as much as I love myself so it totally makes sense I’m single. So another year has come and gone, still single, and still without Range Rover, but oddly enough, not bitter. What’s the take away of this story, you ask? Whenever you witness a parade thats not dedicated to you, you not only rain on it, but you have your own, bigger and better parade one street over. You hire Ceelo Green to sing your praise, glitter coated unicorns to pull your float down the street, and instead of beads, you throw out platinum ipods to your obsessed minions standing on the street. Maybe the opinion I have for myself is delusional, but so is the idea of half of these couples making to St. Patrick’s Day.
Love is actually all around,