† SINISTER PUBLICATIONS†

Another Valentine’s Day.
A magical time when couples rekindle their love, buy each other flowers, or — let’s be real — some folks end up with unwanted STDs they’ll be Googling symptoms for by Monday. But behind all that pink glitter and commercial love, nobody talks about the darker side of today: the blue balls, the depression, and that strangely peaceful feeling of drinking an 18‑pack alone in your boxers while YouTube decides what heartbreak song you need next.

For me?
It means clocking into a regular shift, surviving eight long hours of pure nothingness while the world outside moves quietly in its little love-fueled trance. Then I head home, put on a movie, go mimis, and reset the whole routine like a glitchy NPC.

I keep telling myself I need to start exercising, maybe get out of this spiral. Maybe if I hit the gym hard enough, I’ll stop thinking about all the turkey ladies that left fingerprints on this already-tattered heart. Or maybe the truth is that the depression’s been creeping in way before Valentine’s Day even showed up — because my pops is on hospice, and that kind of weight doesn’t care what day it is. It all just stacks.

But you know what?
The sun will still come up tomorrow — probably too early, probably waking me up before I’m ready. Or maybe I’ll wake up three times at 3AM because the wendigos outside want me to step out and give them a chance to jump‑scare me.

Either way… happy Valentine’s Day SUCKAS!