Unconventional romanticism and why Valentines Day is a farce.

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Valentines Day is this Sunday, hilarious.

I’m not a fan of that holiday, in fact, I actively do not take part in it (mainly because no one loves me enough to actually be my valentine, but let’s not get technical here).

I’ve always been an unconventional romantic. I used to have debates with my best friend about the merits of receiving multi-coloured shoelaces instead of flowers (he, who writes thoughtful letters like they’re crack, does not agree) and there’s a dinosaur toy perched on my bookshelf from someone who also revels in the delights of unconventional romanticism, what a gem.

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Maybe it’s because of this quirk that I’m averse to the holiday, maybe it’s my background as a child of divorce that has made me cynical about unnecessary, clichéd and relatively meaningless displays of affection such as giant pink love bug plushes and commitment-scented bath salts. Perhaps it’s just because for me V-day is also no-D-day (get it? Cause I’m dreadfully alone…haha…love me)

Whatever it is, I’m pretty much doomed to spend the most commercialised and capitalist holiday of the year eating pizza in my bedroom and trying not to listen to my housemates getting it on with their respective lovers, yay.

So Happy Irrelevant Consumerist Holiday, everybody. The most action I’ll get is probably a fist-bump from the drunken car guard on Prospect Street, but at least it’s something.

Someone drop a fast food menu on my doorstep will ya? I have a lot of feelings to eat.

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