Missed A Lover Man. (Shabba.)

14 Feb

It’s Valentine’s Day. Again. Bloody hell.

And in the spirit of Saint Valentine (in his patronage of love as opposed to bee keepers, plague or epilepsy) I spent most of it bemoaning the commercialisation of romance, and attempting to shake off any bitterness that might have crept in now that I’m 24 and would definitely be considered on the shelf if I were living in a Jane Austen novel.

FOR HEAVENS SAKE, SOMEBODY TAKE ME FOR A TURN ABOUT A GARDEN, THAT IS ALL I ASK.

Actually, what I said at the start of this post wasn’t strictly true. I did spend a little bit of time whinging, but it wasn’t doing anyone any good (least of all myself), so I made a point of complimenting ladies on how they looked today, be it a chat about what lipsticks we were wearing, or how her nails looked amazing, or just some tip swapping when it came to colouring hair with henna, it just made today feel a lot lovelier. And yes, you can (wrongfully) call me a sexist for not complimenting the gents I was serving, but I just find it a lot more difficult to say something nice to men without them getting the wrong end of the stick, and then me feeling awkward and guilty for the rest of the day, especially if they’d been buying a gift for their partner at the time.

I am going to try to love love from now on. Because if you can’t love love when other people are loving love*, then how are you and your lover going to love love?

Tomorrow I am hoping my liver loves me enough to be fine with processing copious amounts of alcohol. Everything crossed.

*autocorrect keeps changing “love” to “lice”, which is definitely not what I was getting at.

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