The whole lurid, rose-tinted cellophane day grates on me; every last pink-lace inch makes me itch.
The ostentatious parade of those in love carrying banners of flowers, chocolates and distressingly sexualized teddy bears; the pasted-smile lament of those alone, who seethe inside, or violently retaliate in fits of self-righteous bitterness.
Over it all lies a (however frilled) patina of guilt, disappointment and amends: that we do not love, that we are not loved, we do not love right enough, or that we are too loved, on this one, particular card-infested day.
This is not meant to disparage those who enjoy the day on its merits (Flowers! Candy! Chocolates! Dinner! Sexy time!) - by all means love, and be loved, and find love.
But do so every day.
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