The day that stores and shopping malls everywhere try to get rid of their Christmas inventory by repackaging shit as “a gift from the heart.”
The day that tortures the men who care — only to be met with lack of appreciation.
The day my most recent ex went to get a card last year and ended up chatting with some girl who he basically described as “hot for someone in her pajamas” and “stupid for caring since it was almost 5:00 P.M. and men don’t care about or want, cards,” so he was one of three of the most last minute douches on Valentine’s Day.
I, last year, colored hearts for people, like this one:
This one went to my ex’s married friend. She likes the beach — so I did a sunset kind of thing for her. She’s dead to me now, though. Her choice.
Can we just pause for a second? Every day I get sicker. Every. Day. And maybe it’s not as bad as what some people go through, but it’s still fucking bad. And my friends don’t understand. I can tell they’re growing tired of my handicap.
I can’t do the things I used to be able to do. I fell down three stairs on Sunday night, carrying exactly three bags of cat litter to the laundry area for the cats’ litter boxes at my Mom’s house. I slipped on plastic I couldn’t see due to said bags of litter, fell on my knees, bags fell on me, and immediately started crying. It fucking hurt!
Gross, right? Hard to bend too. It hurts all the time — so I rub burn gel on it so it goes numb and I can pretend I have a normal life.
Just like I numb everything else.
And I’m thrilled this happened the way it did, because I didn’t get an infection, like when I was cleaning up after my Christmas tree and DID, from a pine needle. No joke.
Lately — I must be especially stressed or miserable because my esophageal spasms, another forever condition that doctors know almost nothing about, are flaring up like frat boys on during spring break. (That simile makes more sense in my head.)
For those who want to know what esophageal spasms are, here:
“People who experience esophageal spasms may have the following symptoms:
In other words, HAVING IT — SUCKS.
I love so many people. I sent out as many Valentine’s as I could afford.
What do you do when you’re me, and you’ve gone through HELL and you’ve endured more than the people in your life even care to ask you about anymore, because “it’s always something,” and they’re busy, bored, or just don’t care that much about you just so you could be in a PERFECT PLACE in your life right now, instead of stuck?
I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. RAGE more.
I’m going to get my huge Polish nose pierced. I’m going to get tattooed. I’m going to write a book that tells my truth, with the support of my number one fan.
I’m going to stop giving a fuck about being conventional, and do it my way.
I’m going to forget the haters — y’all keep doing you — and I’ll keep thinking you suck, or worse, are proper shit friends, who feign interest in the only things keeping me going.
I’m bitter. And? What?
I’m sorry if the only chance I have to be happy doesn’t fit into your perfect fucking life where you have everything I’ve ever wanted.
We don’t need to keep seeing each other if it’s too much for you.
Just don’t bother being my friend anymore.
I REALLY get NOTHING from you.
I’m used to going it alone.
Between my Dad dying five years ago and my ex leasing me to die inside for the five years subsequent to that, I’m good.
I’ve got this.
I get it.
I don’t get a win.
I never get a win.
I do whatever I can for everyone I can, and I’m tired of THAT — feeling pointless.
Time is funny. It’s our most valuable commodity. We can never get it back once it’s gone.
And all these thoughts just because I’m single again on Valentine’s Day.
I can’t let that affect me though. Everything in the past is in the past, right? It’s been six months! It’s like, so annoying that like, I can’t just like, snap out of it already.
Today is also my Dad’s Birthday.
Happy 81st in Heaven, Podgey.
I miss you — my best friend, the man who taught me to treat everyone like family, and the guy who would give the shirt off his back to help anyone — every day.
Every day is a little bit darker because you’re not here.
But, I know that the man who you conversed with at Rocky’s for years and years and years — you know who — the one who looked up our last name online when you just stopped showing up one day — and then went to where Mom works to find out what happened to you — but no one could help him because Mom was also in the hospital — the one who died before Mom got better so she never could give him the information to see you — THAT man — is shooting the shit with you while you sip your morning coffee with Equal, NOT Sweet-n-Low, (which is for posers) — and reading the funnies and political sections of “The Ledger” this morning up there.
I can’t wait to see you again.
I love you,