International F*ck Men and Buy a Vibrator Day

I’ve got it all figured out: In 1701 the yet unborn and un-conceived fetuses of John Wilkes Booth, Hitler, and Star Jones met with Satan to devise a Holiday so evil, so putrid, so absolutely pitiless and devoid of compassion that when the Marquis de Sade first heard about it, he said, “That’s fucked up.”

Women, as a gender, like to assign importance to special dates: first time they met their man, the first time they kissed him, the first time they agreed to gang-bang 12 of the guy’s best friends behind a Denny's on a Wednesday night: it’s just something they do. Men are somehow expected to recall these events with perfect clarity and without prompting 364 days later. Ladies, here’s what you don’t understand: I can’t even remember the date of New Year’s. I’d forget about my birthday if people didn’t remind me. There is no way I’m going to recall every date that you randomly assign importantance to.

Fuck Valentine’s Day! Anyone who's ever tried to buy a gift for a girl that he’s dating knows that shy of hooking up a car battery directly to one’s prostate, there is no greater hell than shopping for a female. Valentine’s is just another opportunity to fail miserably at finding a gift that, based on truly bizarre, random tidbits known only to those who have a uterus, sums up the entire relationship a man has with a woman. Bitch, you're lucky I even remember your name, let alone what kind of chocolate you mentioned you like in passing two years ago! When guys exchange gifts it’s fun. I never had a dude ask, “What exactly is this cigar supposed to say about your feelings for me???” It says you’re a flaming, phallus-shaped, $10 trick. Now shut the fuck up before I slap you!

If nothing else, at least Valentine’s Day is an equal opportunity misery generating machine. While it rains a world of hurt upon guys in relationships, it pours flaming agony on every single woman. It’s as if Hallmark has somehow managed to sanction an international “Congratulations, your biological clock is one year closer to needing a new battery” holiday. And if you’re a single girl on Valentine’s Day, you’re going to need those batteries for a device a whole lot more important than your biological clock.

I actually used to be into Valentine’s Day. Actually, Valentine’s Day plays a large role in my generally negative outlook on life. For the span of four years, I used to write a poem for every girl I knew. I don’t mean I would write one poem, copy it 40 times and then hand it out. I mean I wrote an individual, personalized poem for every woman. I would say that in the span of 4 Valentine’s Days I wrote, conservatively, 120 poems. Would you like to know how many women that got me? Go on, guess.

ZERO.

That’s right, girls who did nothing but bitch about how guys never did anything romantic for women anymore ALL had better things to do than hang out with someone who had busted his ass in the name of selfless chivalry. It’s not like I was asking for sex. But if just one of them had taken it on themselves to give me head, they might not have killed the idea of romance for me. Oh well. If you’re female and you don’t get a hand-written poem from me, you can thank 120 single woman who were too good to take one for the team.

In retrospect, I realize my fatal error: I bought into this bullshit holiday and acknowledged its existence. The truth is that this is a holiday that is nothing but and empty, never-ending cycle of hostility, loneliness and inadequacy.

Needless to say, no one sends me Valentine’s Day cards anymore.