The day full of hearts and teddy bears and everything nauseatingly red.
But it wasn’t always so.
I remember school. I remember fantasizing about Valentine’s day. I remember waiting for it, waiting for something to happen, hoping something would one day happen. So the day would mean something to me. Like it’s supposed to. Like it’s meant to be.
And then it happened. It meant something. For the first time in my life, I was really excited about. I was with someone, on Valentine’s day! And it was beautiful. Way beyond anything I had imagined. It meant so much. I don’t think I stopped smiling for days after that. It was perfect. I loved it.
And so was the next. For once I made an effort. And it was a good day again. Not dizzy-headed-can’t-stop-smiling type of a day. But more mature-it’s-a-good-day-to-be-together-and-show-it types. It was still a good day.
And then it changed.
Then came the nausea.
Then the hearts and the balloons and the teddy bears started getting on my nerves.
Why did it happen? I have no idea. I’m not so angry at it anymore. I’m not so nauseated anymore. It doesn’t matter how much a person does anymore. The day is just not worth it. I guess, that, I’m just over it.
Maybe it’s called growing up and getting mature.
Maybe it’s every couples’ cliché of we don’t need an Archie’s day to celebrate our love crap.
Maybe it’s the expectation.
All I know is, if one more person asks me what I’m doing for this day, I’m going to scream bloody murder.