No Valentine’s Day passes without some outspoken, jaded edgelord making a grand proclamation that the day is a stupid holiday for stupid people, and happy people should be ashamed of themselves for lacking the decency to be miserable with the rest of us. 

As said edgelord, I make sure of it.

While my eloquent declarations may convince people that I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting my cynicism,  there have been years when I attempted to enjoy the holiday. That’s not to say it went well, but I tried.

Looking at my older brother and his girlfriend, I got the idea that Valentine’s Day was something special, something worth looking forward to, a fun holiday to spend with someone who really matters to you in a special way. It looked pretty neat until I brought my eyes back to myself and remembered I don’t matter to anyone in that special way, and with all the wisdom of an eighth-grade basement goblin, I went out to change that.

Fast forward two and a half years and one misstep leading to another and I’ve been dumped for the fifth time by the same person. Well, I thought to myself, that sucked, I’m never doing that again!

Fast forward again, but this time about six months and we’re back in in-person school. It took a grand total of two days for me to break that vow of solitude again. And to think I thought myself a man of my word!

It took less than two months for me to be dumped again. You’d think that by the sixth time in the disposal I’d be pretty good at it; maybe I’d even have found the big metal bar to stop the compactor from squishing me this time. I’d hope so too, but alas, squished between the walls of misfortune, I found myself heading into another February utterly alone.

To one wrung so dry as I, Valentine’s Day isn’t much of a holiday. It’s an advertisement for pink-colored trash and cheap candy. It’s a reminder that the throne in the sky that is love isn’t reserved for me, and that whatever I do, I won’t escape the cosmic comedy and personal torment that has so proven to be my love life.