My America

By the time this is finally published and placed in the little bucket that houses magazines and “funny” books next to your toilet, Valentine’s Day will be long past. As I write this, however, it hasn’t taken place yet, and to be honest, I’m kind of looking forward to it. I do every year. What’s the matter with telling your girlfriend or boyfriend or husband or wife or mistress how much you love them?

Ha ha, I’m kidding. I hate Valentine’s Day. I resent its intrusion into the special fantasy world that I have so painstakingly created. The only people that don’t hate it are couples in love. Couples…in love? Hmmm, that accounts for what part of the population? Maybe seven percent? Eight percent? Okay, that means for the remaining 92 percent of us, Valentine’s Day is a much too vivid and unwelcome reminder of what losers we are.

It’s not Valentine’s Day’s fault that it is unfair, cynical and mean-spirited (much like the Catholic Church), and (much like the Catholic Church) hurts more people than it helps. It’s a result of the severity of our segregation and loneliness. It is a burden to those of us not in love, or worse, not in a relationship. Even the list of normal, everyday, common routines that shouldn’t be engaged in on Valentine’s Day is extensive. Seemingly mundane activities such as eating alone, masturbating, or even merely contemplating masturbating have to be reassessed until this whole “celebration of love” shit fades back into the calendar. February the 14th is a microscope on your spiritual and physical isolation. Surely one of life’s simple pleasures is getting drunk, going home alone, eating a bag of Funyuns and holding your confused cock in your hand as you fast-forward through the latest in Eastern European Gang Bang cinema. Or ladies, I know you like to light your Yankee candles, put on Edith Piaf, draw a nice bath, grab the latest Toys In Babeland horror, and touch your stuff. These happy hobbies take on a whole new meaning after being surrounded by cooing assholes drinking medium-priced champagne.

And what about gifts? Don’t neglect the baubles! It doesn’t take a “What sort of man reads Playboy?” dickhead in his $900 Durango boots and cashmere turtleneck to tell you that every woman loves nine inches of rock-hard meat. Wait, I meant something from the heart. Take a tip from one of the great Lotharios of the twentieth century (me): Handmade is the way to go. Trust me, I fuck a lot, and amongst my more successful Valentine’s Day gifts have been my now-famous handmade unicorn rides dipped in chocolate. This combines every girl’s fantastical desires. If you can’t make your own unicorn you can order one online from unicorn4her@fantasycamp.net.

I think we’re at the point where I cut the bullshit and reveal that I am actually in a great relationship. His name is Jesus and he loves me. He doesn’t ask me for chocolate bars or pearl necklaces (although I would love to give Jesus a pearl necklace, but more on that later) or store-bought tokens of love. No. Rather, he is happy that I merely worship him constantly. I never have a need for any flesh-and-blood version of “love” anymore. I simply chant his name and he appears (sort of—sometimes he’s a bit fuzzy) and comforts me in a voice that sounds oddly like my own. He is mine and I am his…forever. So, fuck you, Valentine’s Day! (bitch).

DAVID CROSS