The Sixth Annual Valentine’s Day Poems Entry

I want you to know that I’m at a Starbucks next to my night job and I came here early with my computer just to write these for you. Why? Because I’m clearly in love with you more than I love myself. Like Wynonna, “I forgot to put myself on the list!”

Kick it.

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You are spread before me.
Pink and shiny
Smelling of perfume, powder and girl.
I am breathless, awed.
I worship you.
You are open and brazen.
Is that a little glitter?
You sassy, sassy thing.
You make me blush with your boldness.
You make me breathless — what do I want first?
Where should I begin?
I hold up my hands (they’re tingling), I exhale.
I dive in.
My green sticker says, quite simply, “Yes.”
I love you, Lucky Magazine.

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You love me.
I can see that.
You certainly tell me often enough.
You don’t have to prove your love
With fancy gifts.
I don’t need your friends to tell me
Or have your mom pull me aside to reassure me.
You don’t have to write me songs or paint me pictures.
I only want you
To rub my feet
Without making that face.
It makes me feel guilty.
My feet hurt and need attention.
And if they smell it’s because I busted my ass all day
So that you can sit on that couch and eat my food and watch my television.
So it’s my feet
Or your roommate’s feet,
You lazy freeloading lover.

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I love you.
Really.
I swear I do.
Yes, I know it’s Valentine’s Day.
But come on.
You have the flu, girl.
I ain’t getting my schwerve on with no mucus.
Your face is crusty.
And you’ve got this weird Band-Aid smell.
I mean, I love you
But damn.
Shower before you try to get on top of me.
For reals.

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So…
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
I can do this.
I can stand on my own two feet.
I will attend a wedding without a date.
I will order a table for one.
And I will LOVE IT.
Go me.
I am awesome.
I need nobody else.
Fuck this stupid day that isn’t a real holiday.
The one invented by Chocolate to sell more candy.
Roses smell like old ladies, anyway.
Hmm. What’s this site?
Quirkyalone?
Is that me?
Oh, no.
I…I…I…
somebody love me, quick.
I will give up my Star Trek action figures.
I don’t have to game every Saturday.
I will give away my blender collection.
I will stop watching the Travel channel for the comedy.
I will stop quoting old David Brenner routines.
I will become like everyone else.
Please don’t make me be a quirkyalone.
That name makes me sad.

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Dear Terrence Trent D’Arby.
When I was a kid
I thought you were the sexiest thing on earth.
Thanks for being my Michael Jackson rebound.

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How do I know I trust you?
Of all the people in all the world,
Of everyone I’ve ever spent an evening with
(Or spent part of my life with…)
You are the only one
The Only One
Who owns naked pictures of me.
That
Is
Trust.
I love you.

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You keep me warm, safe, calm and rested.
You are all I need.
All I crave.
All I want.
You are awesome.
Come back to me, Sleep.
I miss you.

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You are the solution to my problems.
You would make everything so simple. So easy.
You would make me oh so happy.
But –Alas!– you are not mine.
You are Evany‘s Sidekick.
And I covet you like no other.

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Dear Oprah and Jon Stewart,
Hi.
You probably didn’t expect to share a valentine with each other this year.
But I am who I am because of the two of you.
Kind of. It’s strange, I know.
Jon makes me realize that even though the world is
so strange and scary and soon to self-implode from stupidity
there’s always a reason to laugh about it.
It will eventually be okay.
And there’s always someone doing something way dumber than you are.
My dad was like that.
He enjoyed laughing at the dumbest news items.
He found a certain comfort in ridiculous media frenzies.
He covered the OJ Trial for me like you’ve covered the Messopotamia.
So thanks for that, Jon.
And you, Oprah, you remind me
that someone’s always having a much shittier life than I am.
And you seem to have found yourself
now that you’re fifty.
You seem confident and comfortable with who you have become.
That makes me think of my mom,
and I hope she finds the same peace of mind you did this year.
I hope she doesn’t have to go to Africa to do it, though
(Because I’d miss her.)
But you remind me of my mom in another way, Oprah.
You seem genuine, and nice, and you want to help people.
Those are three of the best qualities about my mom.
Mom also likes to repeat things she finds nifty,
and seems to find out about things just a few months too late.
(Last night she asked me if I’d heard of a Clooney movie
with that girl from Chicago.)
So spending an hour with you on weekdays feels like getting lunch with Mom.
I could never repay you for that.
So thanks, guys, for being my de facto parents
When I can’t spend all the time I want to with my own.

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Here is something I will love forever:
Now matter how busy we seem to get
I love that you’ll drop everything–
All of it–
To dirty dance with me in the living room
And then chase the cats around.
That is how I know
You are The One.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

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And don’t forget to check out Wendy’s Valentines. Man, that lady is funny.

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