Let's Go Shoot People with Arrows

Yes, it's that day again.

Yes, I still hate it.

No, we're not celebrating. In fact, we both literally feel quite ill. Normally I'd be kinda pissed, you know, since I've got a lot of work to do and it's winter and such, but it's actually kind of fitting. Mostly because this is the most terrible day ever invented.

If you wasted money on roses or some useless stuffed toy this year: congratulations, you're an asshole (according to me and not the cupid consumer machine, of course).

Alternatively, if you bought that special someone something from say, The Stag Shop (or a similar boutique of coital possibility), congrats! You win (I'm looking at your Tudor). Although "sexy" presents have also been co-opted by the commercial marketing machine, at least they're more fun to ram into your special areas than a stuffed bear, or a thorny flower that smells like grandmothers (again, I'm looking at you Tudor).

And that, dear readers, is my mental image to you on this craptastic day of tenderness.

Love, me.