Joy and rapture: It is almost Valentine’s Day. Again. What. The. Hell.
I cannot even begin to describe how much I hate StupidDumbFucking Valentine’s Day. It’s more than I hate Christmas. Which, is saying a lot. Being a soul-sucking, commercialized piece of bunk, I am not even surprised that it is connected to a massacre. Listen up.
1. Do not get your privates waxed. Trust me on this. It is terrible. I know it’s called V-Day and that it seems like a good idea to remove all the hair from your vagina for a SuperSexySexKittenSurprise for Todd*, but it is not. Look, I have only done this once and, actually, the lady was really nice. She thought I was in college and she even told me that I had a young looking labia–but I can assure you that IT IS NOT WORTH IT. I have tattoos. I have run half marathons. But nothing compares to the discomfort that I felt on that day. Trust. Don’t do that to your LadyKitten.
2. Don’t buy new clothes. Just don’t. The salesperson, usually an alarmingly beautiful gay man named Geoff, will put all kinds of lady pressure on you. “Something sexy right?” Or “Oh my gawd, it has to be stilettos. RED STILETTOS.” He will force you into a very tiny black dress and suggest that you should “probably just like, not eat, for like, the day before” and mention that his best girlfriend, Ashley, did a Salt Cleanse the week before V-Day to make sure that her stomach was totally flat. You will look at your stomach and see it is not flat. You will google Salt Cleanse and realize that if you really loved Todd*, you would have a flat stomach and you would be willing to shit for 12 hours straight to achieve it. You will leave the store feeling exactly 33% less attractive, full of despair and you will reluctantly make an appointment to get your vag waxed (because Geoff has told you underwear is NOT an option underneath the black dress). You will buy a giant container of Epsom Salt.
3. Don’t buy gifts. Your gift sucks. After stripping all the hair and most of the skin from your HooHa, you will be delirious with pain and you will buy a gift and give it to Todd* over dinner and poor Todd* will just stare at it. He probably won’t even know what it is. He will ask if you saved the receipt. You will be emotionally ill-equipped to deal with the situation having just shit your brains out for 12 hours during the Salt Cleanse. You will Ugly Cry.
4. Actually, just do not even leave the house. So, let’s talk about that dinner. It’s going to be crowded. The restaurant will be full of strangers that you will have to awkwardly rub yourself against as you push through to the host stand, where you will find out that Todd* didn’t actually make the reservation. You will find out that you now have to eat at El Rancho. The last time you were there, you were 22. It was 3am and you took tequila shots with the employees in the stairwell. That’s not romance. Your feet hurt, your pantyless vagina is numb from being raw and unsheltered from the February wind. And, most of all, you hate Todd*. Todd*, who is now taking a selfie to send to his mother. To. His. Mother.
This is what you should do: Dump Todd*. Buy a fuck ton of wine, chocolate and Thai food. Get wine drunk. At home. Watch everything that Dan Stevens has ever appeared in. Fall asleep, spooning a dog/stuffed animal/pillow/your roommate.
You will wake up with considerably less self loathing, a normal set of labia, and an un-chafed asshole.
You are welcome.