My parents have been married for thirty-five years, and not once have they celebrated Valentine’s Day. I didn’t come upon this fact until last year when I stopped by their house to say hello and asked my dad what his plans were for February 14th. “Probably take the dog for a walk,” he responded as he stood in the kitchen, surgically preparing an orange for eating.
“You’re not gonna do anything with mom?” I asked.
“She might come on the walk. Although lately the dog’s had the shits and she ain’t a fan, so it might be a solo endeavor.”
“So you’re not going to dinner or anything?” I asked.
“Yeah, I get it. It’s a made up holiday anyway,” I replied.
“They’re all made up holidays, genius. You think Easter sprouted up from the fucking ground? No. Somebody had to say, ‘I’m a big fan of Jesus and I got a ham and some time to kill on a Sunday.’ “
“But you celebrate Easter,” I said as I grabbed an orange slice he handed me.
“I like ham,” he replied as he grabbed his plate full of fruit and moved into the dining room.
“So then why don’t you celebrate Valentine’s day? I don’t care. I’m just curious,” I pushed.
“That’s the definition of caring, dum-dum. You know why human beings are here on earth? To fuck each other, make babies, then take care of those babies just long enough so that those babies are able to grow up and fuck each other and make more babies. That’s it. That’s our purpose in life. And if you don’t believe me, take a good look at yourself in the mirror right after you’re done jerking off next time and try to come up with a good reason as to why in the hell you just spent fifteen minutes doing that.”
“I would rather not do that.”