Fuck Valentines Day

Note: if you are not a fan of the profane, go no further.

Fuck Valentines Day.

There. I’ve said it. After being a sucker for twenty years I’ve finally found myself ready to say it. I’ve bought hundreds of roses over the years. I even made a bunch when I had no money by cutting out individual petals and glueing them one-by-one onto 12 paper stems that I’d made myself. I’ve bought and made twenty cards of varying degrees of sickly. I’ve bought gifts. I’ve paid for overpriced meals. I’ve gone to theatres and bars and romantic getaways and have hand-written love letters. I’ve arranged a day-long treasure hunt challenge around London involving dozens and dozens of friends, ending with me proposing marriage on the south buttress of Tower Bridge.

Fuck it all.

Fuck the pressure to do something different. Fuck the implication that love is perfect, and if your relationship isn’t then it’s not good enough. Fuck being told that if you don’t find the perfect gift then you don’t love them enough. Fuck feeling that if you don’t have anyone at all then you’re missing out and should be disappointed or pining.

This year I have no-one. Last year I had someone, technically, though it was post-discovery and so I was in no mood to profess my undying love. This year I am truly alone. And do you know what?

I’m okay with that.

Typically, I will be on Daddy duty that night as, apparently, my ex has “work things” to deal with that evening. This means I won’t even be going to a bar with lots of other single people and drinking enough to forget that I’ll be snuggling up under my duvet alone, without sex or affection to look forward to.

I’m already sick of the adverts for romantic breaks, giant teddy bears that will clog up rooms, lingerie that will barely be worn or massive heart-shaped balloons that serve no practical purpose and little purpose of any kind at all. I’m sick of the pitying looks and words from friends and family about not worrying about it and encouraging me to focus on the future.

I always knew Valentines Day was an overblown, overhyped marketing machine designed purely to part people from their money and to make people feel good that on at least one single day of the year they can be seen as being romantic. It doesn’t matter what other thoughtful things are planned throughout the year, what other gifts are presented or how many hugs are given on the other 364 days, it’s all about that one day. It’s all about other people seeing that you are romantic rather than your significant other knowing you are all year round.

But, like almost everyone else, I was trapped in it. I was committed. I was judged. It’s taken my heart being fully, totally, utterly broken for me to actively decide that I will never care about the judgment of others again. That I will never need to publicly show my affections on a pre-determined day, just to fit in with all the other sheeple out there.

Fuck Valentines Day.

Until such time as I fall in love again. Then I know I’ll fall right back into line. What choice do I really have? What choice do any of us have…

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