this fuckin’ day.

The thick, chunky flakes are falling fast at an Ohio coffee shop as this thick, chunky girl sits with a medium dark roast.
I turned the radio on this morning to a contest on a local pop station that was culminating a “Cutest Couples Contest”. Winner received an engagement ring or a noose or something along those lines. So then I had to turn the radio off.

The cheerful barista keeps wishing today’s greetings to every customer who walks in, and in true bitter fashion my mind creates Tyler Durden-esque fantasies of pouring scalding coffee on the next person who tells me Happy Valentine’s Day, taking them down in a headlock and kidney punching them until they cry. Yes, readers, this is a light blog entry.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t necessarily mind today, or rather, I haven’t in the past. I think. I remember loving this holiday in kindergarten, when the promise of miniature peanut butter cups and conversation hearts trumped any residual heartache left from the week before when my boyfriend at the time chose to sleep next to one of my friends at naptime. That’s why I don’t date six year olds anymore.

Maybe somewhere in between me dressing up into a red dress for my high school boyfriend and now, I have lost something. Perhaps my ability to do eye makeup with just gap lip gloss and a charcoal pencil I stole from the art department because my mother wouldn’t let me wear eyeshadow. Maybe I lost my ability to pull off a long pleather skirt and a hemp choker. That look always got me a boy in high school, maybe it would get me a boi now. I’m not sure. So I have been brainstorming a few remedies to save myself from certain Valentine’s Day doom.

1. Reading about Republican presidential candidates. Nothing cheers me up more than reading about all of the stupid shit that these men have done, from setting women’s rights back decades by claiming that women should stay in the home (Santorum, obviously) or claims from a philanderer about the importance of fidelity (Oh, Newt). These men make me feel absolutely thrilled that I am not as moronic as they there, and more importantly, that I can pull off a suit much better.

2. LEGOS. I know, I know, you are thinking, “Really, Brooke? I know you have actual elvish tattooed on your ribcage, but Legos? That seems kind of dorky.” And you are right. And I fucking love them. Building them? No, actually laying them out on a hardwood floor and walking over them with bare feet. It’s very therapeutic. Ask my dad, he stepped on them all the time when I was a kid. That’s how I learned words like, “Shit”, “Fuck”, and my personal favorite, “God Damn Fucking Legos”.

3. Fancy water. (Vodka). As a true alcoholic, I don’t like anyone to know I’m drinking booze. As a true lightweight, I am visibly drunk after three drunks, and am hammered after four or more. For some reason, I got it in my head in my early twenties that ordering straight vodka is sexy. An instant way to get unsexy, however, is having four of them and puking on your own shoes.

The bottom line is, if you are looking for me tonight, I will be sitting on a pile of legos with a bottle of goose and reading the Book of Mormon to trying to figure out how the hell Romney is still on TV. That crazy flake believes in polygamy.

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