Today is Valentine’s Day, so I figured I’d pull from the legendary SubscribeStar archives to let the unsubscribed masses bask in my dubious wisdom (which can be yours seven days a week for just $1 a month).
Dr. Girlfriend and I are enjoying a steak dinner tonight. We’re looking forward to it after a busy week. Let’s just hope I’ve gotten her some flowers—gulp!
With that, here is 24 February 2024’s “In Praise of Valentine’s Day“:
It’s Valentine’s Day, a day for love and cuddling—or, perhaps, for sobbing gently while eating doughnuts over the kitchen sink. In this day and age, there is no wrong answer.
Well, there is one wrong answer: not picking up Electrock Retrospective, Volume II: Technological Romance—celebrating its tenth anniversary today—for the very romantic price of $2.14.
Last February I found myself in a rather discouraging place—dumped and dejected, wiling away my time with designer LEGO sets and DiGiorno pizza. Unbeknownst to yours portly at the time, I’d embark on two relationships: a short-lived, doomed-from-the-start imbroglio with a hyper-progressive, anxiety-ridden schoolmarm, then what I thought might be “It.” It didn’t last, and I found myself in a similar mindset around Christmastime.
Ironically, watching It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) helped immensely. George Bailey’s frustrations and struggles very much mirrored my own (except that he resented his big family and happy marriage), and I understood his character’s despair and broken dreams palpably.
I’m in a better place—no need to send Clarence—but some of those enduring frustrations still hold fast. I’m not nearly as bitter about it as I was when I wrote this piece, but no amount of frozen pizza can mend a broken heart.
With that, here is 1 February 2022’s “Alone“:
It’s February, the Month of Love. As such, it’s a good time to talk about relationships and such.
There was some speculation in the comments of this blog a few weeks ago about my relationship status. Alys and Audre were discussing whether or not they should buy garish (they didn’t use that word, but I can only assume) hats for hypothetical nuptials.
Well, as these things do for a sensitive poet-warrior like yours portly, it all came crashing down—not with a bang (giggity), but a whimper.
The Portly Politico 