Dear Hallmark,

Fuck you. No, seriously, fuck YOU.

How dare you try to dictate where and when I should show affection to my significant other? Do you have any idea of how inconvenient your timing is? Let me break it down for you; Her birthday was in November, her son’s was the day before Christmas, and then comes Christmas, new years, and my birthday in January. You even managed to weasel your way into Superbowl Sunday! Have you no shame? By the time your precious Valentine’s Day rolls around, I’m broke and I’ve had it up to here with all of your insufferable commercial holidays. I submit to you that this time you have gone too far. I will have none of this nonsense. I’m on holiday strike until you can get your shit together and space this shit out a little bit.

Thanks to you, I’ll have to leap off the cliff like the other lemmings and buy flowers and plush animals with frilly red ribbons around their useless necks that stare blankly at the recipient with unsettling button eyes. Yes, I repeat that I HAVE to buy these things, because despite the fact that I like to buy these things on any other given day, on a whim, simply because I love her and want to genuinely show it, thanks to your commercials and underhanded marketing schemes, I MUST buy her a shitload of this crap on February 14th because everyone else has to and I don’t want to risk looking like a cold, uncaring boyfriend.

Oh yeah… you got her completely roped-in with this nonsense. She bought me boxers with hearts all over them. Wow. Thanks. I’m not sure, but I think I’ll place the heartprint boxers next to the twenty other pair from past Valentine’s Day massacred gifts. Maybe I should make a giant, gay patchwork quilt out of them all and sell the fruity thing on e-bay or the Lifetime Channel. She also got me a red t-shirt with some writing on it. I don’t recall what is written on the shirt, possibly due to the fact that it was shoved to the back of the closet as quickly as humanly possible. But don’t get it twisted. I love my lady, and she loves me. Unlike you, she pays attention to my mood, and I’m certain that the words on that shirt probably say “Fuck Valentines Day” or something similar.

She didn’t stop there though…

She got all artsy-fartsy and created decorative candy bowls for all of her co-workers. Isn’t that sweet? Isn’t that enough for you? Of course not! You continue to push her holiday spirit buttons until you suck the life out of all of us. You sick, twisted bastards! You made her buy enough candy to put the entire Pacific Northwest into a diabetic coma, and coerced her into distributing it to me, her children, and many other unfortunate victims. Apparently, the increasing cost of dental care means nothing to a holiday whore-monger like yourself. Perhaps I should take a bag of chocolate kisses to the nearest street corner and exchange them for bus fare since your meddling has caused her to deplete our budget. But hey… who gives a rat’s ass about saving for a vacation in Vegas when I have an entire bag of Bon Bons to devour and add another distinctive lump to my rolls of BACKFAT!

You are a shit.

Your meddling has left me no other recourse. In retaliation, I will boycott St. Patrick’s Day, Easter Sunday, and Mother’s Day. Any further unsolicited intervention on your part will result in the cancellation of Father’s Day as well. You have been put on notice.

Respectfully,

Me