I figure it's as good a day as any for me to let you know about my Valentine. His name is Aragorn, and I love him with all the doomed passion of a shieldmaiden of the Riddermark. I'm off this moment to face the threat of having the flesh stripped from me and have my shrivelled mind left naked before the lidless eye for his love. And, when I say that, it's because I'm hoping that somehow my yearning for glory, even if currently mis-directed and in the thrall of a deathwish, will send me a suitor with quiet nobility, gentleness and compassion.
Faramir! Where are you? I need a great blue mantle the color of deep summer-night set with silver stars about the hem and throat!
Or, if Faramir is going to be late, maybe there's someone I've unjustly misfigured in my imagination, but whom I will soon find is the most ideal Mr. Darcy in the world. Fitzwilliam, dearest, I want you to know that I've realized that wicked Mr. Wickham is not what he seems, and I can't wait to meet your sister! Or, perhaps an old friend I've always loved, but never knew how much until just now - someone I can call my Mr. Knightly - will be here soon to declare his love when he realizes I was never really injured by Mr. Churchill's carelessly deceitful ways. Mr. Knightly? Is is wrong to hope that if I can't have you, no one can?
My romantic longing for an epic love-story may have led me into an improper connection with a n'er do well Mr. Willoughby or two, but I do have high hopes that in my hour of need there will be a sober and faithful Colonel Brandon who will run mad if he is not given some occupation that will ease my wretchedness. Meanwhile, I will continue to nurse my long-suffering and chaste affection for Mr. Farrars, in the hope that fate will release him from his current ill-considered betrothal.
I'm pretty certain young Mr. Emerson would offer me his room with a view for mine that has none, and kiss me ardently in a perfect Florentine landscape, if only I could get myself to that pensione overlooking the Arno; and that the Blouse Man is still driving his magical mystery bus around the Catskills just searching for the right young woman to kiss with his freedom and frolic with in waterfalls while Joni Mitchell songs fill the air.
Failing that, I could always continue to be the voice of reason to Fox Mulder's demons, knowing all along that he has not looked at another woman in six years, and how much he is just aching to KISS ME ALREADY, while Special Agent Krycek glares with polymorphously perverse hunger at both of us, and Assistant Director Skinner makes peace with the fact that he can never have me, and bridles the bucking bronco of his passion.
And, if all else fails, when I die alone and am eaten by wild dogs, it will only be to join poor Heathcliff on the wild and windswept moor, where he awaits me as a lost and wailing spirit walking the earth without satisfaction because of the strength and violence of his unrequited love for me, and me alone.
So, don't worry about me, folks. I'm cool this Valentine's day. No corporate holiday swelled up to infinitely laughable proportions by the greeting card industry can make me bemoan my tragic spinsterhood, or the fact that my fucking car is broken again.
I'm just going to go ahead and get myself some chocolate and watch Pride and Prejudice one. more. time. I like that part when Mr. Darcy goes swimming.