I Hate Valentine's Day.

Worst day of the year to be in hospitality.

Except maybe for the short few days after the Masterchef finale when everybody suddenly thinks they’re the next Peter fucking Gilmore but really have the palate of a dried up forgotten Chux that’s been hiding behind the sink pipe for too many months.

What’s worse is when people ask you with the slightest undertone of Gretchen Weiner : “Oh what are YOU doing for Valentine’s Day?”

…

Cunt what do you think I’m doing? Knitting a fucking sweater over a bottle of vintage Chablis, naked and covered Adam and Eve style, in whatever cheap petal Big W had out the front on sale?

No. I am up for 17 hour work day of making chocolate tortes and preparing my hands for the bombardment of oyster shucker attacks they’re bound to endure for my 6 and 8pm sittings, making sure everybody else is having the romantic night of their life.

Next time I’m specialling garlic mussels instead and you cocksuckers can just live with smelly cum to be licked for that twice a year ritualistic “hey honey we can have sex tonight!” drone of a lifestyle you’ve allowed your marriage to become. Or anything really that just needs to be thrown around a hot environment for 3 minutes in order to be done. Sound familiar?

Nothing says romance to me more than a slab of Corona, some Tarantino and couch snuggles over a bowl of 19c a packet Indomie mi goreng (that I‘ve lazily microwaved, not even stoved, with extra fried shallots up the wazoo of course), followed by some back clenching orgasms.

And what if I told you that you can make a booking OUTSIDE of 7:30-8:30? -pause for shocked expression-

Plus I can't listen to Elton John for more than 3 minutes without dry reaching. Unless I'm watching the Lion King, no I cannot feel the fucking love tonight.

You can shove your false ideologies about romance up your dead nanna crutch for all I care. Romance is about spontaneity. It’s about doing something nice for the sake of doing it. Not because you wandered into Safeway to pick up the latest copy of Zoo, a carton of milk and whatever new healthy cereal you’re pretending to enjoy and had your eyes assaulted by pink fucking everything and love hearts to make you realise “Oh fuck! That reminds me to tell my Missus I love her tomorrow!”

Fuck off.

And why does it have to be the guys job? If I could find a way to wrap a love heart shaped steak and the 20/20 recorded I would for my boy.

This is also not to say, that I’m not a lover of romance. I do. I adore it. I am an absolute sucker for white roses too. It’s the one part of me that actually reminds me I’m still female (That and I feel the need to use public restrooms with every single one of my friends and even when I‘m ready to go out I‘ll still dawdle around for an extra fifteen minutes… You know it’s all one big hiccup of a matrix).

But anyway. Bring me a flower on a bad day. A random Sunday in July when it’s icy cold (I deal with the cold about as well as I do seeing a “124km Until Next Rest Stop“ sign on the Nullarbor when I‘ve just smashed a 1L Slurpee) and you’re doing it to brighten my day.

Bring me a giant Freddo when I’m PMSing and I’ll swoon.

But for God’s sake. Don’t stand here and try and say it means shit because Hallmark decided that every guy should get laid at least once a year outside of their anniversary. The only good thing about Valentine’s Day is the movie and that’s only because I would wife Jessica Biel.

I’m not bitter. I’m really not. I just think that every day should be Valentine’s Day. Flowers and chocolate and hot sex and Date Nights and babysitters for the kids, should be saved for whenever you and your loved one need them, not for when you‘ve been told you‘re supposed to have them. Tell them you love them. Tell them. Every. Single. Day.

That and I really didn’t want to be in the kitchen before 7am today.

So let’s bow our heads for all the men who believe they’re getting Brownie Points and for all the unplanned pregnancies.

Amen.