The end of small paper hearts.

love2

At last, the celebration of love and all that surrounds it is finally over! At last! Or sadly! Depending on your degree of investment in the brushed velvet love machine.

I wiki the thing: Several people can be considered as saint patrons whose name now adorns gilding Hallmark cards. All literally died as bloody Valentines. For a few weeks, bleeding hearts were all the rage these days, on the walls of drugstores or as banners in non hipster restaurants.

Barry White was dusted out and his king bed voice echoed through whoopee sessions. Because frilly satin corsets and bling bling bracelets from Birks are expensive, bare buttocks cupids shot arrows at Visa cards to put us in the passion red. The strawberries were accompanied by scented candles, champagne and five-course dinners. The unaccompanied ones had to wait for the 15th to smooth out their unloved and barely fucked faces.

Yes, single folks didn’t get any bottles of Coco Chanel or impatient theethy blow jobs that evening. They had Netflix, chow mein from House of China and the warmth of their cats. If they only knew that old couples probably had the same…

New lovers paid too salty bills, overdosed on too sweet cocoa treats and romantic movies where Catherine Heigl was as pleasant as an acid enema. Rose water flicks are the real St-Valentine’s massacres. And yes, “Fifty Shades” is as tacky and depressing as fluffy handcuffs.

There have been marriage proposals. Often spontaneous and ill-considered. Like we adopt a puppy, without understanding what responsibilities it brings. How it’s cute and all, but that there will be shit to take care of every day from now on.

The cool couples believed they could not celebrate anything. And the least cool of the two cools sulked a little because, seriously, a tiny something, some sort of attention, would not have killed them!!

The geeks yelped «Yoda one for me! » or «You’re the Obi Wan for me! » as they fornicated on a Wookie rug thanking the heavens not to be thirty year old virgins anymore.

There has been the bashfuls. Those who yearn but have no reciprocity, no thank you for the obsession they maintain toward deaf aortas to their pleas. The heart shaped plush pillows “I love you this big” have kept empty open arms. The bad fiery poems which talks of burning and hell and why and please remained unanswered. Those people were the worst, the true martyrs of February 14th.

Eyes watered at the sight of crafts from children to their first crush: Mommy or Daddy. Emotions ran high with E’s spelled backwards in glittery noodles on a lacy background that quickly got sticked on the fridge under a taxi company magnet.

The browsers exploded in a thousand “what to do, what to buy” in large pink bandwidths and Internet cookies. All those clicks showed Big Brother how much citizens are lonely and sad.

As for myself? Well, you’re guessing how much of a sentimental sap I am, but I’m also very stingy: The end of the small paper hearts means chocolates on sale at 50 percent off.

Long live love! Long live the deals!!

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