Shitting On Her Heart
I have a surprisingly clear memory of exchanging Valentine’s Day cards in elementary school. One raven-haired, Crayon-chomping vixen struck me as particularly alluring, so I took great care in scribbling “Will you be my Valentine?”, on a handsome piece of blood-red cardboard paper, before cramming it into a small envelope along with a collection of the most cleverly worded heart-shaped candies I could find – “Love Me” “Be Mine” “You’re Cute” “Pucker Up, Whore” (not so sure about the last one)…Anyway, I had no doubt that the sheer eloquence of it all would swiftly beguile her into holding my hand – and possibly even kissing my cheek – at recess. Alas, that was not to be. The heartless bitch tossed my heartfelt artwork into the trash without giving it a second glance, then eagerly sucked face, by the swing sets, with a sly sixth grade bastard who purchased her soul with a Frisbee-sized milk chocolate heart. I momentarily considered beating them to death with a jagged tree branch, thought better of it, and settled on becoming a Valentine’s-Day-hating misogynist. In retrospect, it was an extremely prudent decision. Over the years I’ve ruined many women and destroyed numerous Valentine’s Days, simultaneously. I feel wonderful about this accomplishment because they were all shameless sluts who jumped at the opportunity to spread their legs for a $3 box of Walgreen’s chocolate. Their shrieks of agony and geysers of tears fed my hunger for revenge. By crushing their hopes, wrecking their dreams, and, above all else, shitting on their hearts, I was afforded the opportunity to transform into a better, stronger, wiser person. And that’s sweet. Happy Valentine’s Day.