Happy Self-Valentine's Day
I had an interesting epiphany when I woke up today. 2019 is the first year I have not had a Valentine in over 14 years. For those of you playing at home, I'm 30, so that means I was 16 when I last enjoyed this glorious Hallmark day as a singleton.
Mind you, 16-year-old Tony was more interested in competitive Counter-Strike and racking up the sponsorship dollars than chasing girls. But I digress ...
I get why some grumpy socks get upset whenever this poor excuse to line florists pockets rolls around. If you don't hold yourself in high enough value, then it's unlikely anyone else will. So on a day that Hollywood tells us we should be head over heels in rose petals and condoms, winding up alone could seem like a horrible experience akin with Chinese water torture.
But what do we say to the God of Despair? Not today, fucker. I will not become a sack of misery and loneliness. I may have a failing internal organ that is hellbent on my destruction, but I have four walls and a roof. I have clean, drinkable water on tap and sewerage that works. I have food in the fridge and plenty more a short walk away.
And most importantly, I have a beautiful fluff ball of a cat who I'm pretty certain knows I'm in my own universe of pain and misery.
So I guess I lied. I do have a Valentine. And I'm going to get them some flowers.
Happy Valentine's Day, Tyson. Please don't kill me in my sleep.