A Douche's Monologue Concerning Valentine's Day

“I don’t get women.

“It’s not like I took her to the White Castle for the romantic candlelit tableside slider dinner. Which, I’m pretty sure, would have tasted better and taken less time than whatever the hell we gnawed on at that fancy French-Asian fusion restaurant she wanted. I hate fusion restaurants. She knows this. I told her many times, ‘I don’t get why they don’t just pick a side and deal with it.’ She never listens to me. Fuckers wanted me to wear a jacket, too, which pissed me off. And I had to make reservations too which, one, I hate pretentious places that make you call in and commit to eating at their place and, two, I hate talking to people on the phone.

“Snooty pricks.

“I mean Christ, what is her deal? I got her flowers. I got her chocolates. That crap is expensive. She knows this, too: I told her, I said “Look at all this crap. Do you know how much that crap costs? That’s how much I love you.’

“If I had my way, I would’a just gone to Walgreens, picked up one of them roses they have at the front there and a box of Swedish Fish and called it a day, but no. I went the extra mile because goddamned if she’d be happy with one of them roses and a box of Swedish Fish, even though I’m pretty sure that’s her favorite candy – and even if they’re not her favorite they’re still pretty good, I mean I’ll eat them if she’s not.

“But no, I went the extra mile and look what that got me.

“I told her, ‘Flowers and candy was fifty bucks. I could’a spent ten at Walgreens. That’s forty bucks I’d have right now. Do you know how many DVDs that is?’

“I buy her all this crap, I take her to a restaurant I know I hate before I even go there, and then I took her to see that movie – the one about Valentine’s Day, what’s it called? I just saw it, what the hell was the name? – anyway, that was okay. That’s two hours where we could both just shut up and eat some popcorn, which by the way is overpriced, and I told her that too.

“What a fucked up, ridiculous corporate-made holiday. It’s all made up horseshit that the greeting card companies somehow got women to go along with so that they can sell more crap, but everyone goes along with it in the name of ‘love,’ which is disgusting, I mean, playing on people’s sympathies like that. To hell with that. And she knows I think this because I told her that last night too, but I said, ‘Despite all that, I’m still buying you this crap, so what does that say about me, right?’

“And then, how do you think she repays my efforts? With some speech about me missing the point and how it’s not about how much crap I bought and how she would have been happy with the White Castle and the Walgreens and sitting at home if the intention was right, at which point I chimed in with a well placed ‘Bullshit,’ because, come on, who does she think she’s kidding? And now she’s pissed off, which means I gotta sit on long awkward phone calls for the next couple of nights saying ‘I’m sorry’ for something I’m not sure I did.

“Whatever.

“All that work and not so much as a quick h.j. for the effort. What the hell’s the point? I don’t get it.”