Sunday, February 05, 2023

AN INCURABLE ROMANTIC

Remarkably, in the period leading up to Valentine's Day, there is a huge jump in the sales of both certified vegan and psychedelic / pot-laced bon bons. Nothing, it seems, says 'romance' better than hip with-it candy. This blogger is rather an old-fashioned man, and consequently downright confused. Surely an intimate lace bondage garb orgy featuring a narrow cast of people requires butter and eggs and cold hard sobriety? Nothing could possibly be more tender and sweet than existential angst and a dread for the future based on being totally conscious and aware and drenched in, for instance, ghee.

Slowly, the purple velvet bullwhip flicks viciously over a greasy body.....

Yeah, obviously I am not a romantic man, nor involved in anothing that could even remotely be construed as an affair of the heart. It's been a wasteland in that regard for the last decade that I have made no effort to change. Doing so would take too much effort, and I'm not sure if it would be worth it. My best relationships are with people I can converse with, whose eccentricities are unobjectionable, and who don't mind my own minor peculiarities.


If advertising is to be believed, Valentine's Day is best celebrated with flowers, an oil change, and a box of cigars. Which makes it a rather ridiculous holiday, and I'm not sure why anyone needs vegan pot chocolates on top of that.

Personally, I would think a few nice tins of pipe tobaco, for him or her, maybe nice Virginia flakes with perhaps a touch of Perique, would be perfectly suitable, exchanged over cups of a hot beverage and a plate of tasty snacks late in the afternoon at a comfortable cafe.
"Ooh", she would exclaim, "Presbyterian with the orange label, I've heard about that!" And he would look at the 100 gram tin of Rattray's Hal O'The Wynd, and think to himself that it was time he rediscovered it. It had been so long! It was a product he enjoyed in college!
Then they would both, exceptionally, have a second cup of strong mik tea.
And hepped to the gills they'd stroll out into the twilight.
A gentle drizzle falls over the quiet street.
An excellent day.



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1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Oaky, Boomer.

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