I took these photos in London in February 2020.
People flying out of LAX internationally were greeted with signs warning them not to handle animals if they went to Wuhan, an almost comic understatement of what lie ahead. I think often about how moments in time can be sullied by what's unimaginably to follow, how quickly things can escalate. I hope this isn't one of those times. Staring daggers at the doomsday clock.
I'm a vehement Valentine's Day disliker. No holiday has the right to come in at the tail end of winter like that when everyone's tired, cold, broke, and sick of their families and loved ones. They should put May Day in February instead. Or Easter. Or Boxing Day! Something low stress. February's days are too short, the groundhog always sees his shadow (allegedly! no groundhog would be interviewed for this post) – it's an untrustworthy month that can't even commit to the number of days in it. Throw the whole month out! It also just sucks for me personally – I'm pretty much always single, plus I am unmoved by obligatory gestures and hallmark card sentimentality. The best thing anyone ever did for me on Valentine's Day – the only good thing – was when this guy Zach I was barely seeing scrawled HAPPY VALENTINES in red sharpie on a religious scare pamphlet about the horror of piercings. I love it both ironically and unironically. It says "which piercing hurt the most? Tongue? Yikes! Nose? Yikes! Actually, the piercing that hurts the most is the one that you've probably never thought about. The hole that was pierced through your soul." Thank you Zach. I will always remember you for this, not the time you said "I'm not listening to anything you're saying, I'm too distracted by how good you look." (Need a "where are they now?" expose on Zach, the guy who did one great thing, but it was so great I'm still thinking about it twenty three years later.)
Happy Valentines, Heathens.
Love, Kate
(P.S. it's the tenth anniversary of this post)
