You know the worst thing about growing up?
No. It's not paying bills. Although that sucks. And no, it's not your body's sudden and alarming decay, although that super sucks, too. And no, it's not the myriad of responsibilities, societal expectations, and lack of nap time, although those all suck, as well.
I don't remember where I was going with this, but I definitely don't want to adult anymore. Can I teenage? That was fun, right? Or maybe tweenage? Yeah. That one. I want to tween. Or twerk. I'm not really clear on the distinction here.
Anyway, I was going to say that the worst part of being an adult is that nobody really gives a fuck about Valentine's Day. Well, I mean, my husband does, in that it's one of the four days each year he's guaranteed to score. But, you know, it's not like he works for it, because, as I just mentioned, V-Day sex is a basic human right for the married man. If it were any other Sunday and he wanted a shag, he'd have to shower and forgo video games and pretend to listen while I whined about my latest fight with my sister.
So, my point: nobody other than your fuck-buddy gives a fuck about Valentine's Day, and even then, they care only because they want to fuck.
Well, fuck that.
I want a return to being a kid, when my teacher had us make these crafty construction paper bags, and all my classmates came and dropped goodies in the bag: chocolates, flowers, cards, stuffed animals, candy hearts.
But I want to adult this shit up. I want only a select group of people (mainly, my husband) to drop a select few gifts in my proverbial paper bag. Otherwise, my mother-in-law will present me (yet again) with that book about how to pray your way to pregnancy (#motherinlaws #infertility #thetwodontmix #justlikemyeggandhissperm). Just once I'd like a gift that doesn't remind me that my wahoo isn't working.
So, obviously, the first thing I want this Valentine's Day is a labiaplasty.
If my broken bajingo refuses to do what it's supposed to (i.e. make babies), then I'm going to want it to look super fly in yoga pants. According to actual news sites, swarms of women are going under the knife to sharpen up their downstairs.
And as someone who has publicly admitted to having beef curtains that are too beefy, I am of the opinion that we women deserve the flowery vajayjays Georgia O'Keefe promised us. So, Cupid, could you please make the scrambled eggs between my legs look more like this vagina orchid necklace thing? Yup. Petals and all.
And while I'm dreaming big, I'd like more than just a pretty penis fly trap. I also want a Lisa Frank credit card. Preferably one with no limit.
Since that card would give me the financial freedom to be my own goddamn Valentine, I would obviously shower myself with real treats, like this bouquet of Doritos. This set of flowers could never be too cheesy. (#imsopunny)
And really, that's it. That's all I want: a surgically tightened wahoo, a limitless credit card with a rainbow tiger on the front, and faux flowers covered in high fructose corn syrup.
Oh wait. I guess I wouldn't mind one more thing.
It really wouldn't be Valentine's Day without a Valentine's card. So, if any of you want to turn me on, I'm down for feeling the bern...
True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. What's the worst Valentine's Day gift you've ever received or given? What about the best? Do you think Valentine's is an outdated holiday? Do you wish that I would just stop blogging? Do any of y'all even read these questions? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.