I wish I had something exciting to write.
But alas, 'tis February. It's pretty much the least exciting time of the year. Every day sorta looks like the previous one: I get up at some early-ass time of the morning, haul myself to work, and come home to spend seven hours reorganizing my Christina Aguilera memorabilia collection.
...well, except for THAT day, which I'm actually not really dreading too too much this year, which is a change for me.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I still hate it plenty. I'll put a little extra hatred on it because this will be yet another one I'll be spending solo.
A friend of mine bet me, back in the fall sometime, that I'd have some sort of romantic enterprise, either great or small, going by the time February 14th rolls around. "I have a hunch, and my hunches are almost always right about this sort of thing," this person said. The stakes: one (1) dinner, paid in full by the other. I even offered 2-to-1 odds.
What do you think I should get? I'm thinking surf-and-turf, even though I hate seafood. You see, I'll order me up a lobster, then before the cook can kill it, I'll scoop it up and dump it into Lake Ontario. And while it may freeze to death in the lake, I'll have the satisfaction that its life was prolonged a few short minutes because I'm ridiculously bad at attracting women.
I mean, hey, it's gotta be a benefit to something, right?