The Monk Bought Lunch

Oh you kid!

Well, here it is Valentine’s Day . So naturally young fancies are turning toward one thing: suicide.

Who can blame folks for feeling today like maybe they should cancel those future breathing appointments? Valentine’s day is a holiday designed so that purveyors of garish trinkets and morsels of ass-fattening tooth decay can line their pockets with the hard-earned cash unimaginative boobs spend to prove to their actual or prospective sweethearts that they feel all warm and squishy about them. Those among us who, by choice circumstance or homeliness, find themselves romantic Hal Holbrooks, strutting and fretting our hour on the stage as a cast of one, are made to feel as though there’s something inherently wrong in that.
Every supermarket, drug store and Hallmark shop is so full of pink, red, and sickle purple that it looks like you’ve wandered into the warehouse in which the deflated nude Anna Nicole Smith Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon is stored.
Lest this sound like sour grapes, let me make clear that my feelings about This Day are not contingent upon whether I am or am not in a romantic relationship. As soon as I sense that a friendship is turning into something more…exclusive, I am sure to inform the lucky bachelorette that I do not “do” Valentine’s Day. They usually agree with me that it is a tacky and awful holiday. But I sometimes get the impression that they think I will, at the last minute, surprise them with a box of chocolates or a mylar balloon with a Care Bear on it. Nobody seems to like Valentine’s Day, but nobody wants to do anything about it.
The other day I was bitching about Today when a colleague asked if I felt that way because I never got as many Valentines as the other kids. Well, no, because at my school you were forced to bring enough for everybody in the class to get one. The Grups were afraid that kids would feel unloved or left out. Instead of feeling left out I was forced to deal with the idea that Joshua Greensplat, the kid who always had a crusty layer of snot and dirt on his face and smelled like acrid piss was, apparently, a suitor of mine. “Be Mine” he says. Well Josh- you take a shower and we’ll talk.
Speaking of crusty snot- One thing that turns my stomach on 2/14 is when couples turn it into an opportunity to rekindle their sex life through the giving of “naughty” gifts frome some quasi-porn store like Spencer Gifts. These places are for people who are afraid to be the honest-to-god perverts they don’t even know how to be in their dreams, so they fall for shit that sounds real”kinky”. Like edible underwear.
If I may say a few words about edible underwear. This is not sexy. I received a pair for my birthday once, so the girlfriend and I thought we’d give ‘em a whirl. I had always imagined something like a fruit roll-up, which, if eaten quickly enough, might be fun to have eaten off of one’s nether regions. But how to describe the consistency and texture of these edible underwear? Have you ever spilled egg white ona counter and not cleaned it up right away, so that you ended up with a cellophane-like crinkly filmy substance? Imagine wearing a diaper made out of that and you’ve got a pretty good idea of the hot and nasty thrills to be had when you bring edible underwear into play in the boudoir.
To me, V-day is all about cheap and tawdry expressions of something that ought to be much more special, private, intimate and all that junk. Or so I’ve heard. I look around on Valentine’s Day and I see folks comparing whose partner spent the most on them, who went to the fanciest restaurant, what kind of jewelry they got, etc. etc., as if these things have anything t do with love. If these empty displays once a year are what it takes for you to feel loved, you’re probably the kind of person who thinks that stripper really liked you.
But all this talk is depressing me. Let‘s get back to suicide. Yeah suicide on Valentine‘s Day. Why not? From then on everyone who knows you will connect Valentine’s Day to this horrible event in their lives, and will probably be in no mood to crinkle their nose up and make kissy noises with anybody. Sounds like a great idea. At first. But really what good is it to you? While I may think the ruination of valentine’s day is a cause worthy of martyrdom. I certainly don’t want to be that martyr and I’m guessing you don’t either. You want to be able to enjoy the fruits of your labor.
An attempted suicide, however, might be just the thing. Do you feel unloved? For this, there’s nothing like an attempted suicide. Your friends and family will flock to your bedside, tell you how much they love you, rub your head comfortingly, it’ll be like they really like you! They might even schedule an around-the-clock suicide watch in case you try it again. Let those other people have their little Valentine’s Day with one other person- you’ve got a whole staff making sure you’re still around! Of course there’s always the danger that what was meant to be an attempt turns into the real thing, and then where are you? Nowhere, that’s where! So for me at any rate that’s out too.
I think I’m just going to get me a high-priced call girl. There’s one that I think really likes me.