Cupid is Black and I Have a Crush on Valentine's Day

I know what you're thinking right now. You're thinking, what?! Cupid can't be black! I thought the same thing too, until a few days ago when he made a surprise visit to my house. He fluttered in on his miniscule little white wings and his noble arrow poised at me with grace.



"What in the world is a baby like you doing here?" I asked.

"How now, gentle sir, I am called Cupid. And I am here to pierce thou with mine arrow of love," the baby answered with dignity.

I laughed. "No, I'm pretty sure you're not Cupid."

"Truly I tell you, sir, I am."

"Uh, no you're not," I assured him.

"Why not?"

"You're just...not."

"Don't worry--I get it. It's because I'm black, isn't it?"

"Nah, man, come on."

"It is because I'm black. Bitch."

"It's just that...I never pictured Cupid as black."

"Jesus was black."

"Um, no. Jesus was Middle-Eastern. He was from Israel. And I don't have a problem with the fact that you're black. You're just different from what I expected."

"Different from what you expected?! Am I supposed to buy that shit? I'm a minor god--I have everlasting life. I don't have to put up with this racism."

"I didn't mean to be racist. I'm sorry, okay? Anyway, aren't you supposed to be shooting me with the arrow so I can fall in love or something?"

"You can forget it now. I'm leaving."

"Wait! Before you go, I'm really sorry about that. This was a huge misunderstanding. Some of my best friends are African American. I totally accept you for who you are--I was just acting kind of immature back there. I can't even imagine how much idiocy you have to put up with in this world just because of how you look. I think it's cool that you're African American. We have a black president--it seems only fitting that we have a black Cupid."

"Hey, don't sweat it. I imagine I'd be pretty shocked too if I found out that, say, Dustin Hoffman was Jewish."

"But he--nevermind. Thanks for understanding. Just tell me if you ever need a culturally-embracing shoulder to lean on."

"Well, you know, I do have something else I kind of want to get off my chest."

"Sure. Anything."

"I'm a homosexual."

...


"GET OUTTA MY HOUSE, BITCH!"

Valentine's Day is fast approaching--like an ADHD alpha male cheetah, hyped up on Redbull, which has just spotted a shiny object in the distance. For some of us this may be an exciting occasion. Others may spend the entirety of Valentine's Day at home watching The Notebook and eating heart-shaped chocolates in their bathrobe.

I don't really belong in either of those categories. I have to admit that I think Valentine's Day is a cool concept. A pagan holiday commemorating a saint who no one remembers and providing the opportunity for all to put an end to their love-sickness and just ask the damn girl to Arby's. Maybe you can take that opportunity to slip that secret-admirer's letter into her locker, or send an e-mail to the hunk three cubicles down from you telling him his cheekbones make you hot, or knock on her front door totally naked, strategically placing the box of chocolate in front of your sensitive parts so she's not creeped out. You can go naked. Just not too naked. Otherwise, she'll love it.

On the other hand, it never seems to live up to its expectations for me. It's like that scene from 500 Days of Summer where it's comparing Tom's expectations and reality. Valentine's Day is always slightly disappointing for me. I always expect to walk out of my front door and all of a sudden every attractive woman on the face of the planet is attracted to me, desperate to seize the opportunity of the holiday to make their move on me. It's not until about 8:16 in the morning until I realize that I'm just an average-looking, slightly nerdy guy who makes morbid jokes and walks around all day with no pants on. And I have to watch all of the other guys get Valentines, and all the other girls get flowers, and then I find myself sobbing in the Boy's bathroom in the Science building and being offered a smoke by the school's most prominent Anime-fanatic.

There are a number of girls I've bided my time drooling over for the past few months. One, of course, is the adorably awkward indie rock lover with a laugh like an iridescent bubble of soap bursting in the kitchen sink. The other is the Jewish blond with piercing blue eyes like a watercolor sky and the no-longer-lost jacket. The third has a neck like a mother swan, and every time I think of her, I think of the splash red wine makes when it hits the bottom of the glass. The fourth has hair that falls over her face like your favourite fountain at your favourite park and a smile that melts all negative emotions. Another has a face like a smiling moon beam, and another makes me squirm with lust every time she tells me to shut up. One has a face so kind that it would make a saint feeling ashamed and sinful, and yet another is a thirty-six-year-old biology teacher. He's 200 pounds, and he has a thick walrus mustache.

I'm thinking about giving one of these girls the poem I wrote for her on my poetry post for The Chin Scratcher, To the Leaves and Your Smile. I probably won't, but I like the idea.

Maybe Valentine's Day is a scam. But it's a nice thought. And I like all of the chocolate.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy