“Cupid is a sociopath in a diaper.” That’s what my friends and I thought when we decided to spend the love saturated holiday together one year ago.
We frowned from my ugly green couch, washed the brownie batter off of our spoons and did what dates do: gussied up, changing clothes a hundred times in the way that girls have a tendency to, and settled on an overpriced restaurant.
“You look great!” we said to each other. Mascara mixed love spilled from our eyes, and filled our empty glasses with booze that we packed in a Poland Spring water bottle. We ate a pre-fixe menu of average food at a below average club restaurant that we decided not to return to long before dessert ever came. With our freshly manicured fingers, we pointed blame at the friend who chose the spot that left us hungry and strapped for cash.
We were girls up to no good. As a group, we spent a large part of our evening sneaking glances at couples kissing and entertained ourselves with a roll of toilet paper in a rooftop bathroom.
It was a celebration in its own right, but this year, I would thoroughly prefer it if someone just bought me flowers.
