V is for Virgin

I was planning on not doing anything work-related until at least 10AM today, but because my boss (to be referred to from here on as Androgyny) has been continually checking up on my productivity, I need to appear flustered at all times. Flustered is a sign of hard work. So, I'm listening to voicemails and typing frantically, so whenever Androgyny pokes its head around the corner, I am justified in giving the 'hold on one second' finger. God, Androgyny, can't you see I'm multi-tasking?! Then Androgyny goes away. Thus, updating my blog is a perfect stand-in for actually working.

For the past two weeks, I've been vaguely dreading Valentine's Day in that "I'm-a-single-girl, I'm-supposed-to-be-miserable-on-Valentine's-Day" way. But as V-Day approaches, I've come to realize that it doesn't really matter to me. I don't really like chocolate. I've lived 22 years without flowers. Romance nauseates me.
Furthermore, I was with someone the past two V-Days, and they pretty much sucked. Last year, the highlight was jelly beans. I don't even like jelly beans, either. The year before, the highlight was (how embarrassing) the monster truck rally. Wait, scratch that. The highlight of that year was getting wasted at the monster truck rally and fighting with Ex-From-Hell, then blowing him off to drink whiskey with my single girlfriends at Cappy's. Hey, don't feel bad for him--I paid for the damn tickets. Take that, Ex.

Here's what I'm saying: tomorrow night, I am going to get very, very drunk. It's going to be fun drinking instead of drinking away my sorrows. I'm going to laugh at things. I'm going to give those hearts with the words on them to sad guys at the bar, and then not talk to them.

Valentine's Day, you are no longer anything more to me than an excuse to drink in the middle of the week.