The Toronto Star runs a section for shmoopy ads every February 14th - Valentine classifieds, if you will.
A man named Steve wished a woman named Barbara Anne a Happy Valentine's Day, and marvelled that it was their 51st together.
Another guy told his love that she was his reason for breathing, and then asked her to marry him.
But my favourite, my absolute favourite was this one:
Olgaaaa! I love youuuu! Olgaaaa! I love youuuuu! Please, call me! Jose.
Olga, if you're out there, call the poor shmuck**.
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The fallout from a single Valentine's wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. It helps that it was on a Monday, but also, I took preventative measures, and gave myself something to look forward to; I set up an appointment with my stylist. So today, I'm going to have my hair cut, and I'm giving my colourist free reign, with only one proviso: it must be dramatic. I'm ready for some drama, poppets, and if it has to start with my hair, then so be it.
Enough of this natural crap. If God wanted us to be natural, he wouldn't have invented colour protecting shampoo.
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**Jose, if she doesn't call, you know where to find me!
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