Hallmark Holiday

So, you think you're clever because you see through Valentine's Day? "The greeting card holiday," you call it, like a punchline. Let me clear this up for you: That line was clever the first time someone said it, and never again. Repeating hearsay doesn't make you clever, my dear, it makes you a parrot.

And let's further deconstruct your puffed out chest: I like holidays. Because I like a reason to celebrate. I like having something pleasant to anticipate. I like cultivating my joy, protracting my joy, and spreading my joy. So what, pray tell, is your point? That my joy is not sincere because, just maybe, Valentine's day was given a little push by Hallmark? I'd say the public welcomed the holiday with open arms. And that's why it is popular. You give Hallmark too much credit.

Instead of your boring cynicism, why not try calling it "The-Evidence-of-the-Good-in-Humanity Holiday"? "The-Proof-that-People-Like-Making-Each-Other-Happy Holiday"? I'm sure with your razor sharp wit, you can come up with something more catchy.

And protest in your own way. Refuse to celebrate by buying love. Refuse to limit your idea of "love" to the person that you want to have sex with. I encourage those things. Just don't shit on my parade. "I don't buy into corporate holidays," is nothing more than the false pretense that people's love for celebration is phony.

orthopedy

My teeth are afloat on a sea of pink. Drifting into tight clusters of throbbing discomfort. You are mistaken in the image of my smile that comes to mind based on that description. If you are trying. The visual record of the drift is miniscule, closely knit as my teeth are. But they are like Musketeers, the little pearls, All for One and One for All.

The current discomfort began on the sparkling shores of a cerulean swimming pool. It was either cerulean or suburban, I can't remember which. But it was a shore, because my older brothers were creating monstrous waves that towered and curled over the screaming egg of my four-year-old body. My sharp little milk teeth were a shining crescent of my delight. So they were fully exposed when I slipped and fell. Shrieking the way I was, you'd think I wouldn't have even been able to hear the crack of my teeth hitting the flagstones. You'd be wrong. The crack embedded itself in my brain. An overtight violin string. The magnifying effect of all the ripping, snapping, and bursting of semi-rigid flesh turning into bloody mush.

Pssst, Hypochondriac

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