I remember when I was young and used to make Valentine’s Day cards, not just for one boy but for all the boys.
I would sit for hours, cut cardboard into the shape of hearts, colour them red and decorate them with glitter and stars. And then write love notes.
I’d always make one card extra special for my extra special crush. Extra hearts, extra glitter, tons of kisses.
It was so much fun.
Now I fucking hate the day.
Not because I’m unhappy being single, because unless I fall in the shower and die and no-one finds me for days, being single is actually pretty good.
And not because I’m anti-love because, dear sweet goddesses, I love the idea of love.
It is the relationship worshipping that drives me mad.
The idea that being single is not okay.
Well. Solitude is more than okay.
In fact, it can be amazingly brilliantly good.
But all the cards and flowers and supermarket love songs condition us into thinking that single is bad.
I’m single. Happily. No husband or partner or even goddammit a lover in sight.
And I don’t know where I’ll be on Valentine’s Day. Probably home, alone, naked and dancing.
I may make a card. Or two. Maybe even more, because I still like the idea of giving one to all the boys. On any day, at any time.
Maybe I’ll get a card. Maybe from the guy who is sitting at the table next to me while I write this. I see him staring at my legs.
But I hope he reads my story before he asks me to be his Valentine.
I don’t want a Hallmark card.
My card has to be hand made. It has to have glitter.
It definitely doesn’t need to be on Valentine’s Day.
And it doesn’t need to come with chocolate.
But if it does, I love 70 % dark. I like orange flavoured.
And I do love gummy bears. Xxxxxxxxx.