Happy V-Day, You Pussy Holes

It's a special day. A day for true soulmates to share foie gras and champagne before embarking on the Anal Train to Cum Junction. Toot toot!

I have never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day (or holidays in general, with the exception of Saint Patrick's Pope-Sanctioned Guinness Binge, which I quite enjoy). I'd wager that 60% of Americans yearly have a disappointing (or downright shitty) Valentine's Day, and I can't bring myself to get behind a holiday that casts a dysthymic pall over the majority of the population. Imagine if Christmas was so exclusionary. Oh wait, it is. See what I mean? Holidays: lame. Treating regular days like holidays: awesome. It's the pirate way.

That said, I'm a lucky girl because I have an extremely romantic husband who enjoys holidays. He already got me a faux-croc dog tote so I can haul Barnabas to all my pressing engagements. Actually "haul" inaccurately implies physical effort-- Barnabas is apparently composed of helium and goosedown and could be carried with ease by a frail toddler. Right now B is napping on my lap, completely unaware of how sickeningly cute his dog ass is. His head lolls to one side. He smells like puppy shampoo and undistilled innocence. The World's Cutest Penis stares heavenward, a monument to canine perfection.

OK, here's my deal: Romance happens accidentally. We all know this. It happens when you don't expect it to or don't want it to or have given up hope. Valentine's Day is akin to fucking a guy who keeps asking "Are you going to come?" I mean, just let it happen, Elijah. God.

I hope everyone has a good one, regardless! I love you, honey.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Mike Saul!