On the Subject of Valentines Day

I think many people in my life would be surprised to know that I like Valentine’s day. Even this year. The reason it may come as a bit of a surprise is that on the surface I am an asshole, and deep down under that, I’m still an asshole. But a little further down from that, I’m a sucker for romance. Every lame cheesy romantic gesture that can be made, I love it. Flowers, tickets to Romeo and Juliet, the drive in, picnics in fields, I think it’s all great.

So, even though I will be spending tonight with a bottle of tequila, Netflix, and a bag of candy, while reeling from a very fresh broken heart and betrayal, I still like today. I still got a nice warm fuzzy feeling in my gut when my roommate surprised his girlfriend with dinner reservations for tonight. I smiled when my friend talked about the night she was going to spend with her boyfriend and the dinner he was going to cook her.

I like Valentine’s day.

 

-Dee

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Anger

It was a new feeling. Not the feeling of anger, that had been felt before, and not even a greater intensity of anger. No, this was a different kind of anger. Where before he had punched walls and thrown chairs, this was a calm anger. Despite the rage bubbling underneath, everything was calm and collected. His breathing was even, his heart rate no different than if he was reading a book by the fire. His hands maintained that steadiness, carefully groomed over years of writing, and drawing.
What was new was the blood. The phrase my blood boils flitted across his mind. It was accurate, he decided. There was a burning in his veins and arteries, that began at the centre of his chest and spread right to his toes and the crown of his head.
Their was a fine line between pleasurably warm, and uncomfortably hot, and his veins danced on this line. For a few seconds the heat was soothing, almost relaxing, the next it made his toes curl in discomfort.
He focused on his breathing next. It had continued at the steady in and out that one could expect from someone lying down. So he began to count his breaths. When he reached 10 he moved on to the next step.
He let his left eye slowly shut, focusing on the picture in his right.
He counted his breaths again. 10 once more.
He moved his finger from where it was resting on the cool aluminum half circle to just inside of it. He gently pushed his finger forward, and waited for the audible click.
When he heard the click he changed his breathing. No longer a steady in an out, but a mechanical in, hold, out, hold, and repeat. So he did.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Hold.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Hold.
In.
Hold.
And on this out, with the precision of years of practice, thousands of hours dedicated to mastering this one aspect, he let his breath out.
The moment his breath had left his body and his lungs were empty, he squeezed his finger back towards his palm.
With a crack that left his ears ringing, and a sharp kick to his shoulder, he watched the little dot of light trace its way through the sky for a brief second and a half.
Then with a puff of brown he watched the wooden board buckle and twist, and for a moment appear to be ready to fall over, but then right itself. All this, over a thousand metres away.
With his ears still ringing, and his limbs burning where he knew his blood flowed, he got up, and he left.
Still angry.