You see the headline and you jump to conclusions.
You think this is going to be one of those angst-ridden blogposts about how my fiancé has been playing away behind my back, got himself a floozy for a bit on the side. Already, one third of you are turning away: we don't do angst. Another third has put the kettle on already, poised to make tea and offer biscuits sympathy. The final third are rubbing their hands in glee, knowing that for all the political blogging and cooking blogging and opera blogging and knitting blogging and walks-in-the-country blogging and erotic blogging, the best blogging is relationship strife blogging.
We don't do Valentine's Day. Numerous reasons, the main one being: we're not sheep, nobody tells us what to do, least of all when it comes to lurving. And not at that price. Flowers have tripled in price from last week to this. And in case you think we're miserable bastards. No, we're not. We love each 364 days a year (365 in Olympic Years).
But you know what that Miserable Bastard did before he went to bed? Gave me an entire bag of Rolos.
I'm in a lose-lose situation here, aren't I? If I eat them all*, it's proof that today I don't love him enough. Leaving one is proof that I am an incurable Romantic.
And he calls me manipulative.
How do I hate him? Let me count the ways...
* eating half the pack is not an option. Eating half of anything is never an option
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