Lust, love, and America's most insipid cultural ritual. On this day of fake and gushing hearts, I fight through nausea and celebrate sensibility. It's Valentine's Day and I'm alone as always. At work, I bagged Valentine's gifts for those who have someone special to cherish and screw. I eagerly rode home to a meager apartment and the black cat I share my life with. No friends, no phone calls; just deafening rock and cheap booze. Women are only a vague memory, but I know they are of little use. My psyche needs the satisfaction of being alone.
Entanglements, or “relationships,” are a matter of course in the outside world. From the youngest age, we are programmed to seek the opposite sex. Strikingly, prepubescent children display this behavior. We are also hard-wired to wed and reproduce. While marriage and family is essential to civilization, it serves little or no purpose for an under-reported number of adults. People want entanglements like children want cars — the kids have nowhere to go.
All seductive ladies are the same and nobody is special. Many women are attractive, but none irresistible. Aside from that lady on The X-Files, I've never had a crush. Eye candy is sweet, but not inspiring. Socializing is an interruption, my desire is beautiful thought and a peaceful life in my own world. Self-centeredness is secondary, it's really about the brain that chose me.
As a child, I decided to remain alone for life. I had then, as I do now, a love affair with solitude. I never had much drive to socialize. Even today, there seems to be little association in my mind between seeing a hot chick and actually speaking to her. I never think of this and soon disregard her presence. Talk? Why? About what? As a cashier, I was often counseled for not conversing with customers.