I'm exhausted. Having spent most of the day sorting through all of the doting fan-mail and love letters I had written myself, I could barely find the energy to begrudge Valentine's Day as I usually do: by creating life-size effigies of everyone in my graduating highschool class who didn't ask me out and spend the afternoon crushing their facsimile paper faces. I considered the countless hundreds I would have to make and decided to bus to town to watch Jumper instead.
On the way I met the Ghost of Valentine's Yet to Come. He was standing on the pavement, blowing his nose literally in to his open palm. Then he stood for a minute to inspect what came out.
