Well, Valentine's freaking Day is over and I survived (I came pretty close to punching out someone in school, though, or at least popping all those giant freaking balloons that were crowding up my hallway--turf war!). Did you? And if not, how are you reading this right now?
Besides, who needs Cupid anyway? That stupid mutant baby. And where's his mother? Who lets their baby fly all over shooting love arrows into mostly everybody's arses wearing only a diaper? It gets cold in February, you know! Plus, arrows would hurt, wouldn't they? Not exactly conducive to love. I mean, if I got shot in the butt, I'd be pretty dang cranky. And my friend went to an archery range with her family, and she shot off arrows like a little freaking Cupid for a couple hours, and the tip of her finger went numb from pulling the arrow and string back, and it's five or so months later and she still can't feel anything in it, even when we smash it with a textbook or bang it on the lunch table or anything (we're great friends, I promise, and we're really nice, too), because she permanently damaged the nerves in it. So arrows are bad. Especially in the butt.
Also, a very happy, happy, happy late birthday to my friends Michelle (February first) and Deanna (February seventh). I don't even think they have time to read this, but still, I think it's nice to shout it out, you know? Give some props to the peeps, yo.
NiteOwl out.
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