Oh, Shit-- Was Yesterday Valentine's Day?

Dear Mrs. Apron,

Fuck!

I can't believe I neglected to recognize Valentine's Day, the universally and officially ordained day that commemorates and publicly celebrates the love that you and I share together. I feel like a Four-Star D-Bag. I mean, really-- a Brigadier Major-Fuckwad, if you want to get specific.

I didn't realize that yesterday was the day I was supposed to go out to the drug store and buy you a red, cellophane-wrapped box shaped like a goddamn heart containing low-quality chocolates filled with odious, sticky substances that resemble toothpaste, rubber cement, and baby tonsils.

I completely blitzed on getting you a $4.00 Hallmark card with cloying naked-assed cherubs playing harps or whatever. (You know, Valentine's Day is the only day where you can openly buy and give people cards with pictures of naked children on them-- I just thought I'd point that out.) I forgot to buy you a card with a meaningless, maudlin, neutral, nebulous poem written by Sandra Boynton's pomeranian, written in script that is so elegant it's practical illegible. Oh, and I forgot to laminate it to protect it against the projectile vomit you would inevitably hose in its cardinal direction after reading it.

I also totally didn't

* take you out to a candlelit dinner

* give you a gift-certificate for a day at a spa, or even a lousy ten-minute massage from some nineteen-year-old chick from Hong Kong with a lip-piercing

* go on a long walk on the beach with you

* rent a Rom-Com with you

* spread rose petals all over the floor, bed, toilet, roof for you-- nor did I present you with dozens and dozens of them, or even one dozen of them-- and I certainly didn't do anything especially creative with roses, like staple a petal to each of my eyelids and force myself to vomit pre-digested roses onto you in a Romanesque celebration of our love. Although I thought about it.

* tickle your asshole with Forget-Me-Nots or whatever when you weren't looking

* feed you those gross candy hearts while you were lovingly draped on the sofa, watching that Rom-Com that we didn't rent

* dress you up like a sex doll in edible red, flank-steak-flavored underwear and ravage you like the tiger did to that gay magician guy-- you know who I mean-- Dr. Oz?

* go to Jared's

* ask you to marry me again-- although that's not a bad idea... we are running low on cut glass bowls and the coffee-maker is looking kind of pathetic

* recite Shakespearean love sonnets to you while you bathed in lilac blossoms and I strummed a lute wearing big poofy knickerbockers and a blonde wig, a powdered face and star-shaped mole.

* buy you a fucking Lexus or Winnebago or something and wrap it in a big, red bow

* dress the dog up as Aphrodite and make his dog-bed look like a clamshell

But I'm pretty sure I told you that I loved you, several times, in fact.

Just like every other day of the year.

Cherubically yours,

Mr. Apron