Well, it's Valentine's Day.
In 2006, I was incredibly earnest about it.
In 2007, I was succinct.
In 2008, I let Jeff do the talking.
In 2009, I farted at an inopportune moment.
In 2010, we celebrated with photobooths and Tater Tots.
I think I've run out of angles, you guys.
Also, part of me feels like, why even bother with a Valentine's Day post? If you're single you don't need another reminder that today is the day that Cupid shits little hearts over everything, causing lovers to swoon, doves to coo, and restaurants to jack up their prices by 50% just for adding a glass of mediocre champagne to their prix fixe. If you're in a happy relationship, you've probably already gotten laid today (or at least eaten your weight in chocolate, which is almost the same thing, at least to your brain), and if you're in an unhappy relationship you're dreading whatever forced attempt at canned romance awaits you tonight, and wondering how many cocktails you can imbibe without getting drunk enough to loudly accuse your mate of not wanting children in front of the entire T.G.I. Friday's staff.
Besides, everyone knows that romance doesn't happen on command, just because some Roman priest got martyred over 1700 years ago, Chaucer took some creative liberties in a poem about birds, and Hallmark got so excited it had to hold its books over its pants.
Yesterday, for instance, on February 13, I spent most of the day in bed, blowing snot into paper towels, getting crumbs in our sheets and avoiding dealing with the recycling, and when I finally dressed myself in a sexy ensemble consisting of a boys' size M sweatshirt and white leggings, Jeff serenaded me with a song, "My Little Camel-Toe," sung to the tune of "My Little Buttercup" from The Three Amigos.
Like that Kodak commercial sang so soulfully, these are the moments, y'all.