I Have the Soul of a Poet, but, Unfortunately and Sadly, the Writing Skills of a Butcher with a Second Grade Education, So I Didn't Contribute

. . .The thing I realized about Valentine's Day, though, is that while we have all these holidays that are meant to commemorate and celebrate our special loved ones, there aren't really any devoted to the folks who have driven us to murderous rage. Thus begat the Anti-Valentine Invitational, where I asked a number of friends whose writing (and freak-magneting) skill I admire to pen an Anti-Valentine to an unloved one, Platonic or otherwise. . . .

Treyf
by Anonymous

First we were roommates. She was funny, blonde, a vaudeville-type performer. We became a couple. She kept telling me about her yeast. I'm thinking, It's because you don't wash. I thought I could deal: certain deeds on good days, you know?

But she'd come home at three a.m. from a show, her feet black--like the DOT had just been through--smelling like alcohol, cigarettes, weed, and sweat (she never washed her show clothes). Still wearing her pasties. She'd bring the stink to bed. Four days later, she'd still be wearing the pasties and the stink. Meaning she hadn't bathed. Then she'd want sex. I'd be all like: Skank. I'm not putting my lips anywhere below your chin.

She once cleaned out her purse on the floor, leaving a hefty pile of cracker crumbs next to the bed of house guests. It stayed there the whole weekend they were in town: a brown pyramid of food.

When the sinks got full--two sinks, since it was a kosher-built kitchen--instead of washing up she'd just put all the dirty dishes in the freezer. The day I moved out there was a half-eaten bowl of soup, on a plate, in the freezer, frozen with the spoon still in it.

This might be the loneliness talking, but does this woman sound hot or what?

Hey, I don't know who you are or if you've bathed, but if you're still available, call me.