I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
I love it how these days I don’t have to wait with sweaty anticipation for a Valentine card. I was always one of those who would send out about 40 cards in the hope that at least one would be sent in return (even if it was a ‘return to sender’ deal). It never happened though. No matter how hard I tried I never once got an unexpected Valentine card. I think the boys could smell the desperation as well as the cheap Tribe perfume on my cards which I would send out about a week in advance so someone may take pity on the girl with the white slouch socks and moon face and have time to fold a piece of paper in half, draw a loose heart and post in through my letter box. I even sent cards to the proper mingers, the pubescent boys who were acne and BO ridden and wore polyester and ‘I love Coast del Sol’ T shirts but even they shunned me! How rude!
Once I grew out of the baggy socks and tights phase I started to send to the girls who would be repulsed to know that it was I, the master beaver hunter, who sent them the sickly cards and not their current wandering hands boyfriends who took all the credit for it anyway. I never stooped as low as to compose my own poetry however and stuck to the customary, Roses are Red and other obvious and stupid hallmark ditties. Maybe that was my failing. Maybe if I had personally crafted a poem for each poor bastard receivee I would have had more grateful respondants. But you know, some how don’t think so.
Thankfully my days of kicking the postman in his empty sack are over and now I can enjoy not only a card but all the goodness that goes with having a lovely girlfriend on this special day. Vomit.
Speaking of which, Lil Red may be vomiting tonight as I am in charge of cooking an entire meal. We decided not to venture out amongst Aberdeen’s hetero couples for a meal tonight after last year’s escapades but will instead consume Fee poisoned food, washed down with ample amounts of voddie and proceed to the gay bar to shake our gay asses in a better fashion than we did last week. All high kicks are banned.
And so I go attempt to roll pastry with a bottle of vodka and a beefy pair of clammy hands. Sweet.
2/14/2004 04:30:00 PM
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