Valentine's Day exists to remind us how much happy couples suck. Hand-holding, kissy-facing, baby-talking, movie-watching, toothbrush-sharing, fart-in-fronting, inside joke-having, no rubber-wearing, "together forever" motherfuckers who are comfortable with the asshole they lucked into finding.
(Comfort + Having shit in common + a shred of attraction) x Time = Love
I'm sure my ex-girlfriend will spend at least some of her Valentine's Day with Muggsy Bogues' dick in her mouth. I wonder if she gives him the same "my jaw hurts" excuse she gave me. 'Twas bullshit. She just sucked dick at sucking dick. Mine at least. Maybe she would've done a better job if she pretended it was somebody else's.
I'm sorry, but I have this rage/sadness hybrid inside of me that bubbles like the slime in Ghostbusters 2. I don't know why it won't go away. It's like initials carved into a tree. Every time I start to forget I've been replaced and move on, the scab reopens and I have to start all over again. Nights are tough when you know she's not alone. Tonight won't be any easier. Someone suggested I go to one of those oh-so-fucking-clever Valentine's Day "Singles Awareness" functions where mediocre-looking drunk chicks with daddy issues and weight problems hoot and holler and shout edgy shit like, "Love sucks!" while they try to muster the courage to dance on the bar. I'd probably spontaneously combust from attending such a trite little get-together. Then again, this is a trite, anti-Valentine's Day post and I'm still here.
I really hate that fucking show Friends. That has nothing to do with this, by the way.
I wrote something clever the other day:
triste at a bar in los feliz
took my insight outside
to hold on to my release
I fear I may work at the gym forever. And yes, I know how crazy I sound, but I'm not writing with my brain right now. I'm writing with that feeling in my stomach.
Time for bed.