When I was younger, I’m sure the idea with Valentine’s Day was to send a card and/or flowers and/or chocolate and/or gifts to someone you were sexually attracted to. And to make this unbelievably more annoying for the person you’re sending it to, you must write the card with whichever is not the hand you usually write with, sign it from “?”, and post it from 15 miles away so the postmark is of a different town. I mean you don’t want the person to know you like them do you? How would that make any sense?
This way, the girl who lives round the corner will never suspect you of a crime so heinous as sending her a nice card, and she’ll be confused as to why someone who has handwriting like a doctor’s house pet is writing to them from somewhere they’ve never visited.
If you want to really scare the hell out of them, you can do what I did in my early teenage years, and cycle to their house with an enormous card, leave it outside their house, ring the doorbell and run away. Nothing odd in that, right? The postman *could* have delivered it, right? Not on a Sunday he couldn’t. I can’t remember how I found out her address given that she had only recently moved there, but she certainly didn’t give it to me. Bizarrely this didn’t seem like stalking, to my teenage self. Continue reading I don’t really understand Valentine’s Day