Laugh All You Want, but at least, I Don't Have to Buy the Chicken Dinner

Dear Hipster Valentine o' Mine.
Your t-shirts aren't funny.
And I hate your blog.
I'm dumping your emo ass,
But I'm keeping the dog. . . .

I'm writing this to tell you that I love you.
I'm writing this to tell you that I'll always be true.
I'm writing this to let you know that no matter what happens, my heart is yours.
I'm writing this to let you know that I will never give up on us.
I'm writing this to let you know that you dropped a sock just now.
From the laundry basket? Yeah, right there, by your foot.
Where am I writing this?
Oh.
Didn't you know?
I'm writing this from inside of your house.
Please don't call the cops.
I love you. . . .

Just because I'm your uncle
Doesn't mean I cannot love you
The right way. . . .

Happy Valentine's Day, Mom.
It's weird I sent you this, right?
Yeah, I thought it'd be weird.
But first I thought it'd be funny,
because you have that picture of me
from when I was three
and I'm in the bubble bath
holding a bar of soap in one hand
and in the other -- for some reason -- a hot dog weiner?
I guess it was only funny in concept,
recreating the picture and sending it to you
now that I'm forty-three.
It's too bad you couldn't just see it in my head
when I came up with it,
because it was friggin' hilarious.
Regardless, I'm no longer drinking tequila.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Click on that link to read some of the best poetry for the occasion.

Single, I'm spending the night like most men in my situation, drinking with friends.

It just so happens, my friends are Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo, which reminds me. If you find yourself in a shady bar near Pioneer Square tonight and some guy offers to let you in the back room to watch a drunk guy have sex with a chicken, please, no flash photography.