My Valentine’s Day for this year will be quick, painless, and without romance. My day will start at 7 a.m. I’ll press the snooze button for almost an hour in 5 minute intervals (because I have two alarms that require attention) and then I’ll get up, grab something not even remotely red (because all the red-shaded clothing paints the hamper) and grab a coat (because it will be very cold) and I will wait for a bus. I’ll take this bus to a T station, take a T (that is not called the red line because of the holiday), and will take that T to the Common, where I will walk—in the same cold I had prepared for—to work at 9 a.m. I will stay at my desk, in my office, until lunch. I will return from lunch. Maybe I’ll send less than thirty e-mails. Maybe. And this I will do until 5 p.m. Then from 6 p.m. to 9:45 p.m. I will sit and learn coding and publishing and things—XML, the language of love—and then I will leave to the red line. Wait for the bus. Then go home and pull off my coat and my shirt, which is not red.
This, I will do on Valentine’s Day.
At least I didn’t have to make plans.
An on-the-spot poem about stupid Cupid
written by Alexa L.
you screwed up this time:
shot us in the head,
but not the heart.
Because if you understood,
you’d made sure your aim was good;
but instead you end up
tearing us apart.