I petitioned, I begged, I pleaded, I used a small amount of extortion, but now it’s time to take matters into my own hands.
I’ve kidnapped Cupid. And I’m keeping him, until you cancel Valentine’s Day.
That’s right. No more candy hearts, no more longstemmed red roses, no more heartfelt sentiments. Cancel, or no more love for anyone ever.
I’ve even stolen Cupid’s arrows and since he is a little baby he can’t get them back.
Look at your little Cupid baby hands. My hands are bigger. I am bigger. If we got into an arm-wrestling contest, I would win, because I’m not a baby. Mine now.
Here are songs you are no longer permitted to listen to in my brutal post-carotid regime:
* Haddaway’s What is Love (answer: terrible)
* The Beatles’ All You Need is Love (that is patently untrue, unless you can breathe in an airless vacuum)
* The Countors’ Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance) (answer: no)
* Glenn Hughes’ Why Don’t You Stay (answer: because I don’t really like you that much, probably)
* Anything Taylor Swift released before October 2014
Songs you can listen to:
* Funeral dirges
* The heavy, wet sound of racking sobs in a dark room that smells like your ex’s perfume
* Unsentimental commercial jingles
* Mariachi music without the lyrics
* The infinitesimally quiet crackling of the universe expanding into inevitable heat-death
* You can make kissy-faces at fishtanks, but only if you’re mocking the scaled denizens within.
* You can enjoy a nice date, but only if we’re talking about the fruit of the Phoenix dactylifera.
* You can fall in love, but only if we’re talking about a literal place called Love and you skin your knee in the process.
Consider the gauntlet thrown. If you ever want to hold hands with someone again (and not just when you’re crossing the street), you’ll cancel Valentine’s Day.