Oh, Cupid. You're the only tiny man in a diaper besides our grandfather who can inspire us to love. But once a year, unlike our grandfather (I sincerely hope), you torture us with pointy objects.
Photography by Ian Witlen
On February 14, without fail, we wake with a poke, and there you are, standing above us holding your arrow and grinning like a lunatic (again, the similarities between Cupid and your grandfather should have ended by now).
You yank off the covers, pull us from our warm beds, and shove us out into the cold, where we will inevitably be reminded of what a loveless existence we live.
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