It’s February 14th. Do you know where your beloved is? I sure the hell don’t. Perhaps he’s frolicking amongst the night sky, naked and uttering “come hither”. Perchance to dream?
All I know is that he’s not front and centre. I’m tempted to send myself chocolates, just so I feel like someone out there wants more from me than a laugh. “Sob”!
I’ve got paramour the world over. They come in all shades. They come in all sizes. Too bad they never come. I know how that poor spinster felt in “The Glass Menagerie” now. Actually, I better identify with Miss Havisham and her rotting wedding dress, awaiting a love that will never come, and determined to make the world (or one unknowing Pip) pay for his crime of the heart.
Well, I refuse to wear white, tattered or not. I do have my pride. That, and I’m afraid of being flensed by some whaler.
So..I got me a bonny idea. One that’s a sure-fire way to finally have that “Death Do You Part” feeling.
I’m going to go hit on men in intensive care! Wait, before you get all grossed out, look at the benefits:
He’ll never choose his buddies over you
He’ll never say no
He’ll always have flowers for the taking once his relatives leave
You can loan him a personality, he won’t mind
He looks smashing in blue flannel
He never gets tired of your stories
He never interrupts
Could care less how you look in the morning
He never leaves his socks on the floor.
Now, if I can only get that pesky nurse to leave us alone….He’s breathing, what more do you want of me!
I once had a Valentine’s Day romance. Or, more accurately, the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. Seven years later, I got tired of the colour red having to be rinsed out of my shirts after he “loved” me. But I digress.
Maybe I’ll take a stroll through the grocery store. Ugh. Maybe not. This is London, after all. Best I could hope for is some toothless hetero with a death-wish. Less said.
Will leave him to the ladies. They can soak up his extra special rays of light. I don’t feel like being irradiated with his nicotine soaked skin.
Romeo, oh Romeo, where the fuck are you!
Well, I sure as shit ain’t no Juliet. I wouldn’t last long up on that cardboard balcony, with him spewing some maudlin medieval greeting card repertoire up towards my bored self. Knowing me, I’d hurl a brick at his skull, just to make it stop!
I’m diabetic. Chocolates, anyone?
The only choice left is cruising the Canadian National Institute For The Blind. Surely they’d be good with their hands. And think of all those wicker chairs. I’m furry, I could tell them I’m a Braille board. Nah…don’t need the lawsuit.
Well, at least I’d always be handsome. Blind ain’t so bad, is it? Ray Charles scored all the time. Must be something to that. Fude fer tought!
Whatever the case, I wish you all a very Happy Valentine’s Day. And remember, your virtue is worth more than a discount box of Smarties, even if mine isn’t.