I must have my holidays confused. I just put a turkey in the oven. Cooking one is much harder than it seems. He really didn’t want to go in there. And by turkey, I mean pigeon. Also I didn’t really stick it in the oven; I drowned it in the bath. And by bath, I mean toilet. You see, I’m going to nail it to the door of the special woman in my life.

Something like that really says: Love me! Love me or Die! Just like Valentine’s Day.

I’m not even sure why I’m doing this post. My romantic life is only notable for its complete absence.  Over the last year the highlight was probably when someone posted my description of myself as an example of what women don’t want.

I’ve also been set up a few times. Or, as I like to call it, pimped out like a 15 dollar whore. My habit of using those sorts of phrases, as well as being “a grumpy and bookish eccentric who dresses funny, lacks small talk and is prone to saying outrageously insulting things by accident” has left the female population less than enthused about my prospects as a mate.

I can’t blame them. I’m less than enthused about my prospects in this regard too.  And honestly, I’m less than enthused about the idea of having a woman in my life, diverting my time away from myself and my money away from my tailor. All together, you might just say I’m less than enthused.

Having established the level of my enthusiasm (low) here’s a few things I learned over the last year:

I make people uncomfortable.

Although a woman may be well aware that you’re the sort of person who wears Hitler mustaches to cancer galas, she may not expect you to be the sort of person who wears Hitler mustaches to cancer galas.

The moment I realize that I cannot speak my mind is a bad one. And it’s a bad sign. But it’s not half as bad as the moment when I start speaking my mind.

I actually have feelings and whatnot. They can be hurt.

I have no game. There’s no middle ground between being simple and psychologically destroying my opponent. I should get some game. Perhaps they sell it at Zellers.

I should do a better job of closing myself off. Some people may say that’s a bad idea. Those people have not read this blog. I really need to meet some girls who don’t read it. Or anything. Reading is ridiculous. It’s for show-offs.

Women leap to the conclusion that, because I’m a man, I want to fuck them. They tend to view a great deal through those goggles. It’s as presumptuous as it is absurd.

Going in for a kiss, while sober, with an unpredictable outcome is terrifying. And awkward. And clumsy. Or maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, that’s what I’ve learned. But I hope all of your humping goes well on Valentine’s Day and for the rest of the year. Throw in a thrust for Grumpy. Or just dedicate your oral sex to me with a small and tasteful ceremony of some kind. I’m not fussy.