What kinda right-minded woman wouldn’t appreciate a hearty meal?

I fear I don’t particularly have anything of grand insight to say when it comes to Valentine’s Day. I think it’s stupid, of course. If you have someone in your life, you really should be just doing nice things for them as part of your regular relationship. You don’t need a special day to say “I love you” in whatever material manner you see fit.  Just fuckin’… do it. And, conversely, if you don’t have someone in your life, the prospect of having a day of the year solely devoted to grinding home the loneliness and despair of your empty, meaningless existence is, to put it mildly, completely fucking shitty.

I do, however, have some insight into my writing. As I finished drawing this strip, I realized that I seem to have a pattern for telling jokes that simultaneously fail the Bechdel Test and involve cannibalism. That’s… That’s weird, right? I mean, I feel like that’s the sort of thing that oughta be, y’know, a warning sign or something. Like when you’re sitting alone in front of a darkened TV with the lights off, and you suddenly notice that the previously full whisky bottle you’d been sipping has mysteriously emptied and your legs now only respond to commands from the brain with a firm “oi, get fucked.” Y’know, one of those sorts of inflection points in Life where you just go “awwwww man, I’m completely screwed up, aren’t I?”

Although… I’m not sure if that pattern is more or less concerning than the Love Boat, Pat Benatar, and Bonnie Tyler references I seem to have surrounded this comic with.