MOTHERFUCK THIS FICTIONAL FUCKING HALLMARKDAY, PEPPER IT WITH BULLETHOLES AND RAPE ITS WOUNDS LIKE A FIVE-DOLLAR WHORE

was it ever important to me? no. yet now, for some reason, it fills me with the urge to vomit. it's a parade of hard-sell advertising. shovelware. a force-feeding of steaming horse-shit. HALLMARK's big EFF-YOU to the lonely and broken-hearted. everybody look at this party you're not invited to!

what the fuck's the percentage of singles in this silly fucking city? when are the people going to rise up? WAKE UP, WHITE PEOPLE.

and if you're in a relationship and you're going to have a romantic dinner with your special someone tonight, don't share it with any of your single friends. don't even blog about it or i will hunt you down and write you a love letter on a baseball bat. (and, you know, hit you with it.)

wow, what the fuck's up with malice? it's only valentine's day...