it's time again to launch into my trademark bitter diatribe about valentine's day (bitter diatribe about mardi gras to ensue). i'll submit the usual disclaimer:
if any of you blog or e-mail me about how lovely and romantic and wonderfully wonderful of a time you and your significant bother had on that unholiest of unholies then you are dead to me. that may or may not be of concern to you; i don't like certain people, certain people don't like me.
remember -- you're only flaunting your shit. i don't like public displays of annoyance or the virtual variety. don't make other people's lonely misery worse by showcasing your success in interpersonal relationships. i've grown quite fond of my loneliness and if you make me question my love for it then words will be had. also i'il shave my #$%!@, put !@#$% on my @%#!#, and *#@!#$% you in the @#$%.
fuck commercially fabricated "holidays". rover red rover let russel stover bend over while i shove a chocolade-covered boot up his ass. it's not called the hershey highway for nothing russ.