Who's Afraid of Vagina Day?
It’s hard to convince people that you’re against the whole Valentine baloney based on principle when you’re not exactly known for having principles and that oh, you’re single. They automatically assume that you’re merely being a bitter, envious, sexually frustrated grouch that can’t get love if they sold it for a dime a dozen at Giant and would probably think better of the day if you had your own lovebunnycheesebucketvomitbagspermpuppet by your side. Funny how nobody says that when you also, verbally spit on them for wishing you a ‘Happy Birthday’ or can’t see the big deal or the point of celebrating New Year’s Eve. They take it as you just being you instead of you well, just being single.
Valentine’s Day would have gone past unnoticed for me this year had it not been for a friend text messaging me a “Happy V-Day!” complete with a dorky electronic rose that sort of looks like this: --------()--@. I had a hard time figuring out what V-Day stood for. My first thought was Vagina Day and my second thought was what the hell is Vagina Day and my third was, is there any particular reason why should one be happy on Vagina Day as compared to any other day? And then it hit me, right, Valentine’s Day. This friend should’ve known better than to waste 20 cents on a Valentine’s SMS for me. I replied the SMS with a “Shove it up
No, I don’t need some loving unless it’s by Dean the Demon Hunter with pretty lashes, sexy pout and biceps as big as (but firmer than) my thighs. But oh, alright, I can be a jerk although I think if you take my imaginary penis out of the equation; a more fitting term would be “shrew”. I would however like to think that I’m a generally nice person.
My friend, on the phone with me some time later, scoffs, “Nope, you’re a jerk.”
“Handsome though,” I said. It’s a quote from aforementioned Demon Hunter but it’s also in relation to a running joke about how I’d make a fine catch if I was a man. As a woman, I’m more like a can of Coke that was thrown by some fool into the sea.
“Still a jerk. No flowers for you.”
Just as well. The last time someone gave me flowers or rather, tried to give me flowers, it didn’t end too well. I was 14 and the poor guy called me up the day before Vagina, I mean, Valentine’s Day to make a date for it. I don’t think I said yes because I remember going out guilt-free to watch a movie with my girlfriends instead. But when I switched my mobile phone back on at the end of the movie, I had several missed calls from the guy and a sad message saying that he waited all day for me at the appointed place, he even bought me roses and everything but “you can forget about it now because the roses are dead!” Judging from the tone of his voice, I think what he really wanted to say was, “You’re not the only chick in the world and you’re not that hot so you can fuck off and die like the roses did, you rotten bitch.”
No one has tried to give me flowers ever since. It might be Karma. Still, I don’t think it’s as bad as this girl I knew who once made a guy eat the roses he was trying to give her. And he did. Poor sod. Fools in the name of St. Valentine. I don’t know if anyone else has tried to give her flowers since that incident but all I can say is that giving flowers as a romantic gesture is a completely unoriginal, thoughtless idea (eating it on the other hand…) Giving chocolate isn’t very original either but it’s a safer bet in case your intended makes you eat it.
Besides, what is a flower but a plant’s sexual organ? A flower more often than not means “I’d love to get in your pants”. It can also mean, “I’m making myself think I love you because I’m afraid of dying alone. P.S. can I get into your pants?” or “Wife, I’m hoping that this flower will stop you from nagging me for five minutes so we can have sex P.S. Can I play golf this weekend?” or “I’m sorry I cheated on you. Forgive me so I can continue having sex with you.” But yes, a flower can convey non-sexual messages. When you’re sick, a flower can mean, “Get well soon so you can be of use to me once more” or “Aren’t you allergic to pollen? Suffer and die, bitch!” It can also mean, “You’re dead. Oh, damn.” Of course, on V-Day, a flower probably means nothing more than “Everyone else is giving flowers so I guess I should too and you’re probably expecting it because everyone else is getting flowers so here you go. P.S. Can I get into your pants tonight?”
“So, what’s original then?” asked a friend.
I don’t know, if both you and I had thought about it before a guy thought of it then it wouldn’t be very original, would it?
“Woman, you’re impossible. What do you want a guy to do? Write you a song?!”
Well, that brings me to another story. I was in Form Four and this boy I had met through mutual friends and had spoken to a mere handful of times rang me up on V-Day, saying that he wrote a song especially for me, declaring his love. Now, this guy has a habit of “falling in love” with every breathing thing without a dick that passes his way and unfortunately, I was one of these things. It’s hard to take a declaration of love from someone like him seriously. And he made it even harder with his song.
Yes, let me tell you about his song. I remember it because it was too awful to forget. I was a big EPL fan back then (now, I couldn’t really give two hoots) and was a
I thought I was going to have an aneurysm and die and had to abruptly end the phone call so I could laugh in peace. Besides, I was afraid I’d catch whatever vile disease it was that made him write that song. The song was no Layla and he’s no Eric Clapton, that’s for sure but hey, I’m no Patti Boyd. Fair enough.
I told this guy in our very next phone conversation (an hour later) that I didn’t feel the same way about him (how could I? would you?). I thought I was nice about it. I did sprinkle some sugar on top of the rejection. I told him I appreciated the effort he put into the song (uh, kay, this might’ve been patronizing) and that he had a really sexy singing voice (which I meant). Of course, I made the mistake of telling a big mouthed friend in “confidence” that “too bad the rest of him isn’t as sexy as his voice” and the comment was ultimately relayed back to the guy.
Boy, did I get into trouble for that remark. Apparently, he exploded with a “What?! And here I thought Maryam was a nice girl but she’s a fucking bitch!!!!!!” His big sister threatened to hunt me down and beat the crap out of me.
Hey, wait a minute. Your baby brother said ‘fucking bitch’. Maybe you should smack his mouth around first before you smack mine. And what’s this, Richard Marx, getting your sister to fight it out for you? Nevermind chivalry, machismo is dead and it wasn’t even a violent death.
Anyway, a week after his big musical declaration of love and hate for this fucking bitch, he was off chasing the skirt of Big Mouthed Friend and shortly after, declared his deep, true love for some other girl in my school and the cycle continues…..
Yes, I think that was the last time anyone has tried to be romantic with me. Now the few interested guys just stare at my boobs or get all wandering hands on the dance floor. That’s as romantic as they get. Well hey, while I will still jab your sperm sack with a corkscrew if you grab my ass without permission, I do appreciate the honesty and straightforwardness. One needs to be able to tell love from lust and love from infatuation and love from sheer desperation and low standards. And try not to tell it in a song. Please. Even Eric Clapton writes shit songs these days.
In my humble opinion, flowers are bad but when it comes to love, you can’t do worst than trying to show it with words – be it in a song or a V-day card or a spoken “But I love you, really, I swear, by the moon and the stars in the sky.” And don’t go ripping off Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 either. God knows we’ve all heard it one too many times and Shakespeare is a cunt in tights and frills. Would you like to be a cunt in tights and frills? When he wrote, shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, I’m sure he meant, “You’re hot. Let’s take our clothes off and get wet like people usually do in summer.” (words = worst) because people use words to cover up the truth, deceive, manipulate, outright lie. Seriously, have you ever tried lying without the use of words? If yes, then I’m sure it wasn’t easy and you were probably unsuccessful. Also, how can you say you’re “truly in love” with a person you barely even know for about a week? Does actual love come and go that easy? Maybe it does, maybe I’m naïve. Or maybe just saying it (or singing it. Ugh) is. Easy. For some people. I’d rather remove my tonsils with a teaspoon.
Regardless, what I hate about V-day is that it encourages people to employ all these gimmicks – flowers, words, etc to “celebrate love” and the whole mob mentality of it all. It cheapens the very thing it’s supposed to celebrate. Oh, and the idea that romance is scheduled in once a year on a set date everyone knows about and restaurants, hotels, spas will offer couples special packages at a special discount – geez, I’m sorry, but the words “schedule”, “everyone”, “package dinner/getaway” and “discount” kind of sucks the romance out of it, don’t you think?
You see, I’m not against V-Day because I’m bitter that I’m single. Hey man, if I wanted to be part of a couple for the sake of being part of a couple, I could by tomorrow (alright, maybe I’d have to actually shower and leave the house. Maybe get some plastic surgery and a new personality, oh, fuck you). My point is, I’m happy to be single fully knowing that I haven’t settled for just any person offering a plant’s vagina. After all, I’m still young, eh? I still have time to hold out for the fairy tale, for my Demon Hunter Charming to come riding in his 67’ Chevy Impala and whisk me off into the full moon where we will kick demon butt together ever after (I’d drive myself but my car’s not working). Also, I’m delusional. That helps.
And for that, I think I should get points for being a true, hopeless romantic. So call me a jerk (I am, I am) but don’t call me a heartless bitch and don’t make jibes about me being as romantic as a root canal performed without anesthesia on a perfectly healthy tooth by a sadistic dentist high on laughing gas and wielding a chainsaw.
“Dude, let’s face it, you’re too cynical to be a romantic,” a friend insisted.
“I’m not cynical,” I argued.
“Fine, realist, whatever. Remember once, when I said to you that love is the greatest, single most important thing in the world, that people live and die from love? What did you say?”
Oh, right. I said, funny, I thought people live and die from unprotected sex. Well, it’s true. You think storks brought 6.5 billion people to this planet? And like Lisa Kudrow’s character in The Opposite of Sex said, “You think they would coin the term ‘died at childbirth’ if it was a one-off thing?” (or something like that). And AIDS is a killer epidemic. And sex raises one’s heart rate and if one has a weak heart and popped one too many Viagra pills well yeah, one can drop dead from doing it.
“Romantic, huh?”
Oh, Happy Vagina Day to you too.
