The Blog

Love is... Worse Than a Paper Cut

So, Valentine's Day, you pink, fluffy and, ironically, heartless bastard. Hated by couples who rue its commercialisation. Hated by couples who say, 'We don't do Valentine's Day, it's pointless' because usually one of them doesn't think this and the other one secretly knows it. Hated by the newly heartbroken, because they hate everything at the moment, even breathing in and out. Hated by the long-term singletons, because they are either hardened cynics or devoid of hope. And hated by committed singletons, like me, because no matter how determinedly you remain uncoupled, nothing makes you feel lonely and unloved like a whole day that screams, 'YOU ARE ALONE! BUY YOUR OWN FUCKING FLOWERS.'

This is not to say Valentine's Day as half of a couple has always gone well for me. Standing out in my memory as a Valentine's Day particularly lacking in romance was the one when my boyfriend decided that instead of spending the evening with me, he'd join his mates to attend a concert across the country at the arse end of nowhere. I bemoaned this fact to my best friend. He said, 'I tell you what. I'll take you out.' He took me to watch Tranmere Rovers.

This Valentine's Day will be better than that.

This morning I saw this quote online: If I had to choose between loving you and breathing, I would use my last breath to say 'I love you'. I would like to watch that person taking their last breath, the stupid bastard.

Another quote said, 'Love will light up the darkness.' Buy a torch, idiot. You can even get one on your phone, so you can light up the darkness AND play Color Switch, whilst lying diagonally across the bed. A win-win-win situation.

I nearly bought an anthology of romantic poetry the other day, just to remind myself of how fucking awful love is. But then I thought, no, I can write my own romantic poem. Surely. And I was right. It only took four hours and a box of Milk Tray that I ate with my face.

Love: A Finite Solution

First you feel it touch your skin

Like a caress

Then an embrace


And then little by little

You feel invincible.

Love is

Like having a fortress.

A really, really big one.

Love whispers through your hair

Like wind

What's that, Love?

You'll keep me warm

And safe

And happy


I knew you would.

Love draws you in


And closer

Until just when you think

There can't be any connection

More difficult to sever,

You get a joint mortgage.

There's no Hell on Earth

Like other people's friends.

Get used to Hell.

And snoring.

All those things

That used to be faults

And became 'quirks'

Turn out to be faults

After all.

I could list them

But instead just ask your mother

What she thought of your last partner.

She'll give you a list.

And then there's the socks

The fucking socks

In the bathroom

Or on the floor

Or on the feet

During sex.



Except the bloody laundry basket.

To be honest the socks were worse

Than the infidelity.

What is Love?

Baby, don't hurt me.

Said the great poet


Did you listen, Love?


No answers.

You just laughed

In Haddaway's face.

Love grumbles

And growls

And aches

In the stomach

Like wind.

What's that, Love?

You're going to embarrass me

In front of everyone?

I knew you would.

Fuck you, Love.

Fuck you.

I'm not playing the game


I'll just sit here

With a litre of ice cream.

Make yourself useful.

Get me a spoon.

A really, really big one.

Helen Keeler

Eat your heart out, Byron, you prick. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone x