Damien Galeone

Valentine’s Day can be tough on people, no matter who you are. You can be under immense pressure to plan something romantic, under immense pressure to put out after something romantic, or sad about being in neither of those positions. You could be dreading the looks of the shop assistant who hands you a bucket of brownies and a bottle of bourbon. Or you might just not give a flying frick.

Why is it so tough? Well, because this is the god of all non-holidays. Valentine’s Day is like a day ostensibly conjured up for lovers, but really just serves to make people uncomfortable and unhappy.

As a man for others, I am offering several services this Valentine’s Day. These services are unisex offers.

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As I sat down a couple of hours ago to write my blog, I realized that I was a bit gloomy. I glanced at the list of blog ideas I had jotted down. How to strangle your neighbor’s dog, 5 Writer Suicides, and Stories about dying kittens.

It was clear: I was depressed.

And is it any wonder? It is a Sunday night in February. Sunday. February. I was sitting down to write a depressing blog on the most depressing day of the week in the most depressing month. The odds were stacked against me.

But I persevered.

Instead of writing about things that will make you want to shoot yourself, I ultimately decided to write about seven great reasons in February to shake your booty and give you an excuse to drink frosty drinks. Here are seven reasons that make February party worthy.

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One of the most enjoyable parts of this alarming activity known as ‘aging’ is that the world moves insanely fast. I don’t mean people speeding around me, though that is the case as well. I mean that time frickin’ flies. It was just last week that I was leaving the university for summer holiday, Christmas was yesterday morning, and surely June will be here again tomorrow morning.

It’s work day in and day out, jogging, read on the tram, watch a sitcom over dinner, sleep. And before I blink, another year has gone by. This is especially true since I tend to worry about the future rather than the right now.

Do you? How often have you said something like: I can’t wait for this day to be over, Once this class/meeting is over, I can relax, I need spring to be here, Come on Friday!

Moreover, happiness is always just around the corner, something that will come at some other time than now. 5 pm on a Friday, on December 24^th, after my proctology appointment, on the first day of holiday.

In the interest of not missing my whole life waiting for something else to happen, I am making an effort to savor the small moments. I want to enjoy the little daily joys, the things that happen here and now. And so here are some of my simple daily pleasures.

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Corey the Lobotomizer doing his other job: clothes dryer

There’s a pull up bar in the doorway of my bedroom. It has been there for seven months and it has seen eight pull ups. This is mainly because the squad of pygmies I hired to raise me up to it quit amidst salary disagreements.

Take it down? Never.

The pull up bar now has a new use and a new name. It is now Corey the Lobotomizer. It gained that moniker and use after I watched two tall friends walk forehead first into it. And despite the rather painful sound, it did provide extreme momentary comedic entertainment.

Sadist, you say. Well, I guess if you define ‘sadist’ as a guy who gains pleasure from occasionally hurting or being cruel to others, then fine, label me. To be fair, it’s nothing really against tall people specifically. As a short person, it’s always good to keep a few tall people around. They’re great for testing water’s depth in a murky pond, reaching things on high shelves, and providing scouting reports at crowded clubs.

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It happens every January. There have been 200 test graded. Two afternoons of interviewing study abroad candidates. Outlines. Syllabi. Mock tests. Essays. I am hunched over my desk glaring into essay number 18. My eyes have stopped working. At first I think a deity has taken pity on me by blinding me; it turns out that I’m crying.

And then it happens.

I decide to quit my job.

I stand with a manly squeal of triumph and move to the couch, where at the very least I can avoid essays that have no thesis statement. I daydream whole new career opportunities.

Today there are some really good ones.

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We all know about the first world problems: I have too many bank accounts! I don’t like my gardener’s mustache. The bank accidentally gave me $1,000. Ugh! And I know they are joke in comparison to more disturbing problems like: My mother is dying of cholera or Boy does that hyena look hungry.

My first world problems are the same as most others: All of my technology is beeping at me. Four cheese pizza my pasty white ass! My inbox says one email, but I can’t find it.

What makes me worse than your average first world complainer is that I not only suffer first world problems, I suffer the first world problems of a middle-aged man with no kids, wife, or car payments. And whereas our first world complainer needs a third world problem (hyena) to put his ‘problems’ in perspective, I need only compare my problems with those of a married friend.

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It’s 1 a.m. The only two living beings in my house – me and the cat, I exclude spiders and silver fish – are on the couch. The B Monster is curled up, one of her paws covering her eyes so that she can snore away and blissfully dream of liver-flavored mice and the days when she had genitals. There’s nothing as comforting and heart-warming as the sight of a sleeping cat. A sleeping cat exudes absolute comfort. 100% relaxation.

So, I start messing with her. I stick my nose as close to her face as I can and blow a thin line of air at her.  She peeks open an eye and looks confused. “What are you doing, fat man?” I pull on her ear. Pinch her tail. Stick my butt in her face. She closes her eyes, a low moan in her throat tells me in kitty language, “Fuck off, fat man.”

But I don’t. It’s just starting.

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A friend was recently dumped via Facebook. In his ex’s defense, she did write him a personal IM and didn’t post it to his wall.

Cindy > Gary

Hey, we’re through. So long and thanks for the two years of your life.

3 likes  1 comment

Gary:   I’m keeping the jewelry.

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On Tuesday night, I saw The Hobbit: The Desolation of Extraordinarily Abrupt Endings. It was in 3D and there was a dragon, so I was pretty happy, nonetheless. Also, the film was filled with action, adventure, and wizards.

Plus, all the sexy short people.

It occurred to me about half-way through the film that all of the protagonists were short and stocky men. Dwarves. A Hobbit. They were killing orcs and battling dragons, scaling mountains and running river rapids. They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t slender. They weren’t tall.

So. This was new.

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I blame gin. Again.

It seems that every time I sip the juniper juice, I agree to something that I later regret. Consequences have included sewing classes and spiders, races and nude swims in public. Last time it was a zumba lesson.

This time it’s an ill-advised bet with a bookworm.

I don’t know when it all started exactly. There wasn’t too much gin (my face wasn’t red yet) but there was enough to set off some IM smack talk about who the bigger reader was. Before I knew it, I was agreeing to a yearlong battle of the books. In the morning there’s that post-gin feeling: a mixture of thirsty, sad, and vague regret. A note in my Moleskine and one final IM from the arch-rival – “I’m gonna kick your ass!” – refreshes my memory.

The goal is fifty-two books; the winner will have read the most pages. Each book will be accompanied by a short report. I am a 39-year old man doing book reports. The last one I remember writing was for Tic-Tac-Terror, a riveting Hardy Boys mystery (A-).

My arch-rival in this challenge is a 21-year old Russkie who drinks in books the way the she drinks in wine. She has the advantage of youth, energy, good eyesight, and a comfortable onesie. She is single and has no cat, and therefore fewer distractions.

I must win.

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