Heart Shaped Box

Oh pass me the sick bucket, it’s bloody Valentines. Party time for tragic bastards who think that romance is a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a teddy bear with I WUV OO written on its T-shirt.

I remember a few years ago seeing some sweat-soaked boy, crimson with embarrassment, sat on a tube with twelve heart shaped, helium filled balloons. I guess he thought they would encourage some amoeba-brained girl to shag him. I didn’t know which of them to pity the most.

Pre-packaged love, how repulsive. I can’t think of anything less flattering than being handed a purpose-made token of affection that’s been plucked off the store shelf with no thought for the individual but purely because it’s what people “do”.

Do you remember years ago there was that craze for enormous big padded cards in boxes? It was like some competition and whichever girl got the biggest card had the best boyfriend who was the most in love. It must have been an enormous comfort when they were alone, pushing a pram around, a year later. You can’t really blame the guys for pissing off, I wouldn’t want to live under that kind of pressure either.

It’s all part of the mind-controlling media saturation, convincing everyone that they must be in couples. All alone on Valentines? You’re shit, you are. God, you must be so lonely and sad.

And so people become terrified of being single, always on the look out for the next relationship, just going from one to another to another, because it doesn’t really matter who their heart’s given to, they’ve just been told that there needs to be someone. Better a pointless partnership than no partnership at all.

If I’m going to spend time and lavish affection on someone it’s going to be for the uniqueness of their personality and not because of something that’s written in a card bought from Clinton’s. Why don’t these people have imaginations? Ick, they make me shudder.