Every year you come. You come under the guise of love, of adoration, of pressure and disappointment. You come on Valentines Day.
On my least favorite of holidays, you arrive with suddenly-five-dollar-greeting-cards, and incomprehensibly-inflated-fifty-dollar-flowers. Your buddies try to teach my wife that I don't love her every other day of the year, my kids that they aren't popular unless their valentines bag runneth over. One guy in Belgium keeps trying to sell me blood diamonds to profess my love. And I've had it.
So this tribute is to you, Conversation Hearts. You sugary and seemingly inconsequential bowl squatter. Your days of jumping onto my waistline as I try to sneak past are nearly through. You and your pals are on extremely shaky ground with guys like me. I am almost ready to cut you back to three bags a week...I could not be more fucking serious.
Finish your business and get the hell out.
Yet Another Jay and Deb Production.
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