Happy Valentines Day, my little lovers and fighters! It's rather a ridiculous day if you think about it, isn't it? It's programmed people (ie: men) to think we're supposed to bottle up our feelings all year but make a 24-hour long, grand gesture on just one day of the year, or else we're supposed to feel guilty if we don't? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for suppressing icky things like feelings and sensitivity and emotions. But I'd rather be told "I think you're OK, sort of" occasionally and maybe bought a junior bacon cheeseburger from Wendy's once in a while than hear nothing all year and then one day get bombarded with overpriced flowers, retarded stuffed animals on motorcycles, and oversized cards that scream the song "Brick House" every time you open it. We can thank John Cusack for ruining the day, what with his quirky romantic gestures and nice-guys-finish-first swagger, setting all mankind up for an epic fail. You can't compete with a boombox and a mixed tape of English ska.
So I guess I have to honor the day, or else the Whitman Sampler police will be onto me. Let me share the love with you, the only way I know how: the dysfunctional, disturbing and creepy way with questionable vintage Valentine's cards.