Happy Valentine's Day, Love Luco

The other cats in the house got me Valentine's Day gifts (or at least I think they got them for me. I found them on the place on the table I like to lie down). They got me chocolate I cannot open by myself, that will not be opened for me, and that I do not even like. Do they not know I view this holiday with the highest contempt? Have they not been living with me for at least six years?

And it is rather foolish of me, but this asinine holiday fills me with sadness. Maybe they do not know this. It is the chalky conversation hearts that no one likes, but everyone eats anyway. The lace doiles glued to red construction paper and covered with a desperate sprinkling of glitter. The endless waste created by wanton consumerism posing as adoration. The chocolates which melt on the tongue - reminding us how all love must eventually melt away, dispersing in angry telephone calls, yelling, disappointment, divorce, death.

Because Valentine's Day so vehemently represents Love (capital, proud, true, supposedly unfaltering, eternal), it cannot help but also represent Love's shadow, and it is that shadow I see clouding the surface of this UR GR8 box of chocolates. It is this shadow I see when my prison-mates give me their sincerest wishes for a happy day. It is this shadow I see when my prison guard and her husband kiss, oblivious, over a glass of champagne.

Love can only end in loss.

Something else about the holiday irritates and saddens me: these infernal boxes of chocolate. If the manufacturers deign to tell you what each chocolate is, then there is no surprise, and each bite into cherry or orange or mango nougat is both disgusting and expected, but if they do not tell you what each chocolate is, then each bite into whatever mysterious fruity nougat you choose is a disgusting surprise. Either way, choosing chocolates is not a way to bring joy into one's heart.

Nothing about the holiday brings any joy to my heart.

It is a holiday that reminds me I am an outcast.