(from l. to r., Michael James Schneider, Ned)
 

I’m the single guy who actually, secretly loves Valentine’s Day. Like, to say “I heart it” is an understatement. Who wouldn’t? Spring is just around the corner, couples are walking around hand in hand, and then there’s me. Struggling with my groceries after another day at work, going to my apartment in NE Portland, open the door…and there’s my cat, Ned, mad that I haven’t fed him yet. He’s all the man I need. Probably all the man I can handle. And you know what they say: the first cat is always the gateway cat.

BUT I LOVE VALENTIME’S DAY. Seriously. I want to eat my weight in the chalkiest, waxiest Russel Stover chocolate I can find. I want to buy every goddamn tacky red and pink Mylar balloon in the grocery store and run into Applebee’s and give them out like blessed candy. I want to give Valentine’s Day cards to every postal worker I see on the street and fill them with powder except it’s not Anthrax IT’S MY DRIED UP LOVE JUST ADD WATER. I want to create special Valentine’s Day Facebook and Instagram accounts for Ned because HE IS MY CAT LOVER.

I want to buy flowers for random people and they are confused but I insist and then they get weirded out and now they are running away. I want to take a stranger out for dinner and at first she is charmed but then she is concerned because we are at a Thai restaurant and she hates Thai and is actually severely allergic to peanuts and I insist and now she is swelling up and why is she convulsing that’s natural, right? I want to dress as Cupid with a diaper and a bow and arrow only it’s a real bow and arrow and I shoot it at random people on the street and they fall and clutch their leg with the arrow sticking out of it and cry “Why?” through gritted teeth in between their screams and I just cackle maniacally and shout “For LOVE, motherfuckers!” and run off.

I want to go to a flower store and ask for all the roses they have and the employee, shy and bashful, gestures awkwardly over at the wall where there are a few scraggly stems and I lean over the counter and grab him by the collar and pull him close and I can smell the cinnamon Altoids on his breath and his eyes get big as I shout “NO WHERE ARE THE OTHER ROSES” and he stumbles back and gets the keychain with hundreds of keys on his belt and goes to the bookshelf that has the Precious Moments figurines displayed on it and he reaches towards one that’s of a tiny blond couple getting married and would be adorable except the bride and groom are CHILDREN and clearly unhappy and the groom is standing on the bride’s train of her dress and WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLE DOES THAT and the employee smartly turns the head of the groom and now the bookcase swings open in the flower shop and we descend dank and dusty stone steps in the abyss below, our path lit only by the torch he grabbed from the wall and then we reach the metal door and he nervously slides the key into the lock and the rusty door swings open and oh the roses there are roses everywhere it’s like a scene from The Dark Tower and oh god they’re everywhere and I buy all of them and go home and pluck the petals off and reenact that scene from American Beauty only it’s not Mena Suvari who’s naked and rolling around on them IT’S ME, because IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY JERKS.

I want to take the “Which Great Expectations Character Are You?” quiz on Buzzfeed a dozen times and I keep changing the answers but I still get Ms. Havisham every time. I want to get anxiety over a guy I’m dating because he’s mysteriously unavailable every Saturday night, even though he says we’re exclusive, and he keeps getting texts and then deleting them right after he reads them and I can see him doing this right in front of me no that’s not shady at all and I have to drink red wine and take a Benadryl just to get to sleep. I want to keep getting targeted ads on Facebook and Google that tell me there literally trillions of sexy singles on LinkedIn. I want to flirt with a guy on OKCupid and then we text and then maybe talk on the phone and then a few days before the first date we scheduled he sends me a totally unsolicited picture of his junk and then when I reply with  :/  he then replies “sorry that wasn’t for you”. I want to be friends with two guys and then we go on first dates and then I think I will have to choose between them like Sophie’s Choice only it’s Schneider’s Choice and then they both text me within two hours of each other and tell me they don’t wanna see me again. Every time I go on a date it’s like I’m at the Build-A-Bear workshop where you build your own teddy bears except the bear is my life that I’m trying to share with someone else and when I get to the stuffing part instead of polyfill stuffing I stuff that damn bear with all my baggage and my fears and my anxiety and then I see the guy and give him the bear only what looked cute in the workshop now looks lumpy and misshapen and hideous and one eye already popped off the bear and he’s like “NEWP! NO THANKS.”

I want to hear “Why the hell are you still single?” on an endless loop, I want to record my mother saying this and make it my ringtone. I want her to try to fix me up with every gay man she meets, especially the ones who run antique stores just so she can get a discount. I want to meet men and fantasize how it will feel when when I crop them out of photos we take together, how it will feel to delete their pictures from my phone. How it feels when they take three days to text you back and you know it’s over. GOD I LOVE THAT MOMENT. The emoticon that best symbolizes my dating life is ;(

I want to get my heart broken again and again. I want to move to a new city and then and only then realize that every single gay man there is looking for an open relationship when I’m not. I want to go on four great, exciting, fun dates with someone and then they read my posts about my brother and suddenly stop dating me. I want to be put in the FriendZone time and time again without reason, without explanation. I want to crush hard for a boy in Seattle and date him a few times and have him end it by not returning my texts. Ignore my calls, read my messages on Facebook and then don’t reply, fucking please. Pretend you don’t know me when we’re introduced in public when we made out in your car for ten solid, wet minutes at the end of our first date, unfriend me on Facebook. I deserve this. I asked for this. Somehow, this is what I always wanted. This was the pain I needed. You, you beautiful creature, you made my heart elastic and it snaps back like a rubber band every time you break it. Break it harder, my lover, bend me until I snap. Do it there, just so, damage me in ways I can’t yet even fathom. Hurt me until it feels good, and trust me it always feels good.

Because I will keep coming back for more, damn you. I will never get cynical. I will never get hard. I will never stop thinking that the next one might be the one that sticks around. I will never, ever stop trying to find love. I will never get bitter, but nice fucking try.

You see, you fuel me. You inspire me. You made me.

I don’t fear or loathe Valentine’s Day, I actually do love it. Because in the end, it’s not a recognition of the romantic love I have, it’s honoring that it has existed in the past, and faith that it will again in the future. It’s a celebration that love just is.

So Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day, my love. May I have this dance?

If you liked this, then you’re just awful. When I’m not bitching about turning 41, I’m musing about decorating, or just listening to weird music. Let’s be horrible people together.