Fuck, my sleeping patterns are getting worse and worse. Starting tonight, I need to get back on a "normal" schedule (i.e., eyes closed when dark, eyes open when light).

I wish I could be one of those people that are all "Oh, Valentine's Day is just another day; don't worry about it". I really do; it would so shut up the chatter in my head concerning Apollo and Opportunity. In reality, both men have two consecutive A's in their name. I'm sure that's some latent alphabetical omen I didn't pick up on. If I could put the two together, they'd be the perfect man. Apollo's innocence, pleasant personality and sense of humor combined with Opportunity's height, width and girth. Amicable Apollo. Affable Opportunity. A. A. Shit.

Back to the original complaint: most of the people I know are telling me not to fret over another V-Day spent alone. However, these people have had at least one V-Day where they got to spoil someone and be all romantic and crap. I haven't. In grade school, I was the calligrapher for $1 CandyGrams with those heart-shaped Luv Pops attached. College found me playing closet Cyrano to a host of men who couldn't tell their ass from an ascot. And now, I'm helping some of my coupled friends experience romance on a limited schedule and budget. I've even been contracted out to play a violin serenade tonight for one couple; I get a free dinner in exchange, but not with the happy couple. This is what being talented and single lands you: shitty Valentine's day gigs.

I haven't written much on the book lately. By much, I mean none. Maybe I'll get to it this week since it's not like I have any flights to catch for V-Day surprises, three-course meals to cook or handsome men to entertain. Oh no, I'll be spending it here in my sanitarium of an apartment. Four white walls. One black boy.

See which cracks first.