Valentine's Disaster

This day I spend at home with my lovers, Antibiotics and Expectorant Syrup. I feel so sad and alone - a response to this pseudo-holiday I never really understood. Up until last year I spent every Valentine’s Day alone, but happy. Not caring that I didn’t get cards, or flowers, or chocolates, or that I didn’t have a "special someone" to share it with.

I vividly recall last year, my first Valentine’s Day in a relationship. I still wasn’t paying much heed to all the hype surrounding it, but I did write Mr. Tall a joke-y love poem, and spent the early hours of the day sitting on my couch making him a card and studying for my exams as I waited until we could be together. My school had given us a day off for the occasion, but his hadn’t. He sent me adorable texts all day despite that, and also despite that I refused to reply out of principle. Each of them made me smile though. We both disagreed with going on a night out, so he had invited me over to his house for the evening, and off I excitedly went with my homemade card and packets of those heart-shaped sweets with messages on them. You have to truly know Mr. Tall, his house, and his family, to understand how big a deal this was, but: He’d reserved us the sitting room for the evening, which I wasn’t allowed leave (except under the obvious circumstances of needing the toilet and having to go home); he brought everything I could want to me. He’d cleaned (the last time I was there his dog had pooped in the corner, on carpet), and the room was filled with the warmth of the fire and the smell of incense. He made us dinner, and we spent the rest of our perfect hours together snuggled on the couch ignoring the TV and just being in love. It might not sound like much, but to us it was such a romantic and blissfully-happy night.

Last night I stayed up and made him a card that can also be used as a lovey-dovey heart-shaped photo frame. It’s appallingly bad, so I suppose it’s a good thing that I won’t get to give it to him. He still hasn’t contacted me. He knows I got us tickets for a comedy show tonight, the last time we talked he said he still wanted us to go together. However, since I don’t want to be the one to make the first move, or to miss the show, I shall be going with a friend. With my rate of luck at the moment, I expect to spend the night alone at the bar, waiting for the show I couldn’t watch without ruining it for everyone else with my hacking phlegmy coughing-fits to end, so I can take a smelly rattling bus home and cry myself to sleep.

I feel as though as though I’ve been visited upon by the Harbinger of Misery and Misfortune. I know I’m just being overdramatic and taking far too much pity on myself, but I don’t know that this will go away.