I’m sorry i’m not going out of my way to be overly romantic. I didn’t get you a card or buy you a tie or some stupid fucking tool set for the simple fact that you have a penis, or electronics we don’t need and can’t afford. I’m sorry I didn’t plan some gigantic grand gesture to prove my gigantic amount of love for you (or to try and get laid), or post some overly sappy status update on facebook about how much I love you and that this is the “BEST VALENTINES DAY EVER! I LOVE MY LIFE AND MY SUPER WONDERFUL HUSBAND! XOXO!”
I’m especially sorry that you won’t be getting laid this valentine’s night or ANY valentine’s night from here to when my ovaries decide to stop pumping out eggs.
It’s not that I care about the over conglomorizing of what some people consider a “Hallmark holiday” complaining about the candy, card, and jewelry companies benefiting off of people attempting to impress someone or force someone to like them, or just trying to avoid getting their ass chewed out (i’ll take the chocolate without a second thought and i’ve never asked for jewelry and cards are always nice), it’s not that i’m hateful toward it because of bad V-Days past, and I won’t go on and on about how “every day should be a day to show love and not just one!”– no… I simply don’t give a single fuck about any of that. Not even the tiniest one.
Here’s the deal:
I figure what i’ve given you in the past should count for… ohh.. i’d say forever. (yes, that’s bold, italicized, AND underlined. It’s that fucking serious)
That’s right. I stretched myself to oblivion, got covered in permanent purple marks, gained 40 lbs, stumbled upon random patches of fantastic cellulite scattered about my thighs, and blew out my vagina just to bring your spawn into this world. TWICE. All while you sat on the sidelines, still able to drink and have fun and eat whatever the fuck you wanted without worrying about looking like a whale or having your ass explode or pissing off a baby taking up residency in your abdomen. You also got to keep your sanity, were able to sleep on your stomach (or sleep at all) hold your bladder for longer than 24 minutes at a time, and have a total of ZERO hands shoved into your orifices. I had well over 18 months of all of that. Your 85 possible days of Valentines, only 50 or so of those spent married to me, do not and will not ever equal the 630+ days I spent knocked up.
All of that combined, should keep me covered for life when it comes to gift giving. As stupidly fucking cheesy as it is to use the cliche’d “children are the best gift you can give”– it’s working for me right now. And i’m running with it!
Tell me, what could EVER top your very own living, breathing, miniature human?
And tread lightly, dear, for if you say a big screen TV or something equally asinine is better than my crotch fruit- an otherwise uneventful Valentine’s day will end with you being smothered under a newly embroidered pillow. I *have* been saving it for a special occasion after all.
Big thanks to PaRANThood for inspiration to write this blog!
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Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.