in a perfect, selfish world (governed by my own forces), my valentine would be james franco wearing nothing but a fur coat. or francisco lachowsi wearing nothing. or a now single ryan reynolds or julian casablancas serenading "meet me in the bathroom". mere fantasies. perhaps in a realistic but yet to experience moment in the world, my valentine would be senstive and relentlessly romantic. he would buy me a single rose and cook dinner. we'd watch something like american psycho together. embrace each other with a bottle of wine and end the evening with strumming a guitar and humming along to the smiths.
as much as i don't like to admit it, but i'm still holding out for a cheesy valentines date with an equally pathetically disgustingly mushy valentine. perhaps its the innate, womanly yearnings within that cause me to feel this way. i've never been one to celebrate valentines day nor worry about whether i will be graced with a chivalrous deed that i am loved. i mean one day, i'd like to. but this year is a no go. another pass, another monday, another mediocre day within the month of february that will come and go. a fleeting trivial twenty four hours. until i meet my abominable sweetheart. my johnny flynn or jeff buckley reincarnate. i'll pass off the day and curse the usual commercial gimmicks and finish that Riesling in the fridge all on my own thank you very much.
love,
ps. ive also realised my pattern of singleness on vday. and usually before or after. curse?
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