Valentine’s day is an aristocratic, authoritative holiday designed by imbeciles in stained white stockings with a hole in the knee.
This hole in the knee represents the hole in their hearts that they attempt to fill with a meaningless, corporation driven holiday every February that includes spending ridiculous amounts of money at Jared’s, just to come home and present an incorrectly sized ring to your gold digger ex wife who for some reason still lives with you. You walk into the living room of your 5 bedroom, rundown apartment to find her having sex with a man who looks suspiciously like Darth Vader without his helmet on. You proceed to question her as to why she would ever betray you in such a way, in your own football ridden sanctuary, no less. She reminds you that the two of you are divorced, so technically she wasn’t betraying anyone. You shrug, punch the man in his wrinkly face, and proceed to take you and your incorrectly sized ring elsewhere. You end up on the streets of Baltimore, late at night, being propositioned by a lady of the night. You stare at the woman for a moment, shove the ring box into her well manicured hand, and hightail it to a dive bar. You then get drunk off of tequila and eat about ten individual lime slices before you pass out in the corner, your foot dangerously close to a puddle that glints – suspiciously – yellow in the lighting.