It's been years since I made peace with all of the erstwhile villains of that story, and if you know me you've probably already heard it. There's not a lot of rancor left there. But twenty-one years is something to be either celebrated or punished, as coming-of-age stories go; and anyone who thinks "punished" is an inappropriate term probably didn't have too many shots pushed at them on their twenty-first birthday.
Apparently that's not going to happen. I'm annoyed at not having the chance to act out, while being simultaneously reassured at having better plans. Nothing even vaguely romantic, mind you, but still less bleak than even a planned mid-week bender.
I'd love to see Hallmark headquarters hit by napalm. My inner puritan loathes the idolatry of even pretending it's a papist holiday, and my inner socialist hates the consumerism.
Even my inner romantic hates the idea of caring about a lover one day more than every other day. I've had love sour and grow distant, other times seen it curdle and become violent; I can't imagine anyone who can call me naive in affairs of the heart. But I believe that maybe one day, picked at random, cannot be more romantic than any day where we're in love.
Confidential to LJ/SixApart: Fuck your pink theme. Expect to hear from me.