Every Valentine’s Day, I’ve gotten gloriously fucked. Not from behind or from the side, but over — I’ve gotten fucked over.
Last year, I wrote this 400-word bullshit piece about how someone pulls off some unanticipated grand gesture for me on Valentine’s Day. And I came up with some fucking dumbass conclusion that I should try and return the favor in 2021.
Fuck that fucking dumbest of dumb-ass decisions.
I’ll fucking admit it. I’m a fucking liar. Those grand gestures resulted in one shitshow after another. Not to mention I spoke too fucking soon. Valentine’s Day 2021 was the first year I actually had a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day and that ended terribly — both the relationship and the fucking fourteenth.
My annual series of royal fuckings started in 2018 — the first time I had a friend that was a boy that didn’t want to fuck. We were best friends, and it was Valentine’s Day, and I thought, as a token of appreciation for our friendship, I would get him a fucking fish. Not just one fucking fish, but two fucking fish. And boy was that a fucking flop. I loved those fucking fish. I paid $11.99 for those fucking fish. And they weren’t those shitty-ass goldfish that nobody wants, they were the neon pink, blue, orange glow fish that everybody fucking wants. And in my naivete, I thought that he loved those fucking fish as much as I loved those fucking fish. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t have to pay $11.99 for them at PetSmart. Ungrateful bastard.
Anyways, one week later, the fish died.
The next year, I had a friend that was a boy that did want to fuck — what some people call a “boyfriend.” But we were seventeen and he was shorter than me and unemployed, so I wouldn’t call him a fucking boyfriend in any fucking capacity. Anyways, we conveniently “broke up” right before Valentine’s Day. How fucking fucked up is that? I get fucked.
But that’s not all. His best friend of 10 years drives to my house and leaves a heart-shaped box of chocolates at the door with a card that says “Happy Valentine’s Day”. So now my ex-boyfriend who wasn’t even really a boyfriend because he was shorter than me and unemployed was getting fucked by his friend who was simultaneously fucking me over because now I would be responsible for fucking up a decade-long friendship. Fuck. And I wasn’t even home. I wasn’t even home to receive this fucking box of fucking heart-shaped Russell Stover fucking chocolates. But my mom was. And she picked up the fucking box of fucking heart-shaped Russell Stover chocolates, and she called me and said “What the fuck?” And I said, “What the fuck — why are you saying ‘what the fuck?’ You never say fuck.” And then she said “You’re fucking him and his fucking friend?”
Now my mother thinks I’m a whore.
Fast forward a year. I’m in college now. No more fucking high school fuckery. It’s Valentine’s Day. I get a package. I never fucking get packages. I already know something is fucked up. I open the package. Naturally, I look inside. That is why I opened it. 16 bath bombs, 12 pairs of Valentine’s Day socks, and four initialed necklaces for me and my first-year roommates. Okay literally, what the fuck? Is this some sick fucking joke for all the fucking times I’ve gotten fucked? Who could be so mentally fucked?
I find out it’s a male friend from home—one I have never fucked nor ever fucking spoken to either. I find this strange, but I thank him for his kind gesture anyways. He tells me that next year, he will buy me what he wants to see on me, which is fucking lingerie. I hang up the fucking phone, and I begin laughing because I fucking LOVE misogyny. It’s so fucking marvelous I could die.
Last year, 2021—the year of the bullshit “it’s Valentine’s Day I fucking love everyone because I am in desperate fucking need of human interaction when is this fucking dumbass pandemic going to fucking end.” I have a boyfriend. We have broken up 60 fucking times before Valentine’s Day, including on February 13th, but we’re still here. We are still fucking — with each other. We never fucked.
Focus. I have a fucking boyfriend. I tell this fucking boyfriend to plan something special for Valentine’s Day because he does fucking nothing. And once again, he does fucking nothing, and I do fucking nothing about it. I drive to Boston to meet the fucking do-nothing fucking boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. On the ride there, I call him and tell him that he better have fucking flowers because I am driving three fucking hours for fucking Valentine’s Day. We get off the phone. He fucking DoorDashes flowers to his fucking dorm room. I see the fucking DoorDash driver pulling out of the fucking parking lot as I am pulling the fuck in. We go to dinner. He hands me a letter that he typed in Calibri font size 11. Zero fucking effort. In the letter, he says he really fucks with me and wants to fuck with me forever. It’s not a fucking proposal — just a fucking piece of paper. Just like the first “ex-boyfriend,” he was also unfuckingemployed. That night, he screams at me and calls me a fucking dumbass fucking fucked-up, stupid-ass feminist. I say “fuck you,” and the relationship is fucking done.
So every Valentine’s Day, I get fucked. I’m still a virgin, though. Because I don’t fuck. I get fucked.
Every Valentine’s Day, I’ve gotten gloriously fucked. Not from behind or from the side, but over — I’ve gotten fucked over.
Last year, I wrote this 400-word bullshit piece about how someone pulls off some unanticipated grand gesture for me on Valentine’s Day. And I came up with some fucking dumbass conclusion that I should try and return the favor in 2021.
Fuck that fucking dumbest of dumb-ass decisions.
I’ll fucking admit it. I’m a fucking liar. Those grand gestures resulted in one shitshow after another. Not to mention I spoke too fucking soon. Valentine’s Day 2021 was the first year I actually had a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day and that ended terribly — both the relationship and the fucking fourteenth.
My annual series of royal fuckings started in 2018 — the first time I had a friend that was a boy that didn’t want to fuck. We were best friends, and it was Valentine’s Day, and I thought, as a token of appreciation for our friendship, I would get him a fucking fish. Not just one fucking fish, but two fucking fish. And boy was that a fucking flop. I loved those fucking fish. I paid $11.99 for those fucking fish. And they weren’t those shitty-ass goldfish that nobody wants, they were the neon pink, blue, orange glow fish that everybody fucking wants. And in my naivete, I thought that he loved those fucking fish as much as I loved those fucking fish. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t have to pay $11.99 for them at PetSmart. Ungrateful bastard.
Anyways, one week later, the fish died.
The next year, I had a friend that was a boy that did want to fuck — what some people call a “boyfriend.” But we were seventeen and he was shorter than me and unemployed, so I wouldn’t call him a fucking boyfriend in any fucking capacity. Anyways, we conveniently “broke up” right before Valentine’s Day. How fucking fucked up is that? I get fucked.
But that’s not all. His best friend of 10 years drives to my house and leaves a heart-shaped box of chocolates at the door with a card that says “Happy Valentine’s Day”. So now my ex-boyfriend who wasn’t even really a boyfriend because he was shorter than me and unemployed was getting fucked by his friend who was simultaneously fucking me over because now I would be responsible for fucking up a decade-long friendship. Fuck. And I wasn’t even home. I wasn’t even home to receive this fucking box of fucking heart-shaped Russell Stover fucking chocolates. But my mom was. And she picked up the fucking box of fucking heart-shaped Russell Stover chocolates, and she called me and said “What the fuck?” And I said, “What the fuck — why are you saying ‘what the fuck?’ You never say fuck.” And then she said “You’re fucking him and his fucking friend?”
Now my mother thinks I’m a whore.
Fast forward a year. I’m in college now. No more fucking high school fuckery. It’s Valentine’s Day. I get a package. I never fucking get packages. I already know something is fucked up. I open the package. Naturally, I look inside. That is why I opened it. 16 bath bombs, 12 pairs of Valentine’s Day socks, and four initialed necklaces for me and my first-year roommates. Okay literally, what the fuck? Is this some sick fucking joke for all the fucking times I’ve gotten fucked? Who could be so mentally fucked?
I find out it’s a male friend from home—one I have never fucked nor ever fucking spoken to either. I find this strange, but I thank him for his kind gesture anyways. He tells me that next year, he will buy me what he wants to see on me, which is fucking lingerie. I hang up the fucking phone, and I begin laughing because I fucking LOVE misogyny. It’s so fucking marvelous I could die.
Last year, 2021—the year of the bullshit “it’s Valentine’s Day I fucking love everyone because I am in desperate fucking need of human interaction when is this fucking dumbass pandemic going to fucking end.” I have a boyfriend. We have broken up 60 fucking times before Valentine’s Day, including on February 13th, but we’re still here. We are still fucking — with each other. We never fucked.
Focus. I have a fucking boyfriend. I tell this fucking boyfriend to plan something special for Valentine’s Day because he does fucking nothing. And once again, he does fucking nothing, and I do fucking nothing about it. I drive to Boston to meet the fucking do-nothing fucking boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. On the ride there, I call him and tell him that he better have fucking flowers because I am driving three fucking hours for fucking Valentine’s Day. We get off the phone. He fucking DoorDashes flowers to his fucking dorm room. I see the fucking DoorDash driver pulling out of the fucking parking lot as I am pulling the fuck in. We go to dinner. He hands me a letter that he typed in Calibri font size 11. Zero fucking effort. In the letter, he says he really fucks with me and wants to fuck with me forever. It’s not a fucking proposal — just a fucking piece of paper. Just like the first “ex-boyfriend,” he was also unfuckingemployed. That night, he screams at me and calls me a fucking dumbass fucking fucked-up, stupid-ass feminist. I say “fuck you,” and the relationship is fucking done.
So every Valentine’s Day, I get fucked. I’m still a virgin, though. Because I don’t fuck. I get fucked.
