. . .to lust with raging lungs!

Single people are notorious for getting upset as February 14th draws near and declaring through blogospheric rants about how utterly insipid and pointless a "holiday" it is.

Most notorious for getting upset about Valentine's Day are the notoriously single people.

On Valentine's Day, bitterness is an obligation for the single.

I, however, have always hated the day, regardless of my current state of romantic entanglement or disentanglement, as it may be.

When I was 16, my boyfriend bought me roses, but hid behind his best friend while he gave them to me, for fear I would hit him. (Flowers die. I find that giving them as a gift in a romantic context is slightly offensive, yet strangely accurate.)

When I was 18, my long-distance boyfriend couldn't drive to Edmonton to see me, because he had to work.

That same year, I had made a deal with my brother that I would disappear for the night. I watched him slice havarti cheese and arrange it on a plate in the shape of a heart. He got his girlfriend two cards: one funny, and one romantic. He bought her champagne. He framed a photo that I had taken of them for my photography class. (I had used my entire black room time that week at school to make sure the print was perfect, even though the negative was over-exposed.) He put on a belt, trimmed his goatee, tucked in his shirt and lit candles.

I disappeared.

I spent the evening with three guys named Dave: Big Dave, Big Gay Dave, and gay Dave. (That's right. I spent my Valentine's Day with three guys named Dave, two of whom were gay, and two of whom willingly call themselves "big" as a prefix to their actual name.)

Every year on Valentine's Day, my mom sends me a card. Last year her card read, "Somebody loves you!" (And if you don't know my mom, what this actually means is, "At least somebody loves you!")

In grade 2, I accidentally gave the card that my mom put in my lunch for me to my teacher (because back then, your mom always wrote you a card to give to your teacher). The whole class found out about it and I was mortified. I still get embarassed thinking about it.

Your mom sends you a card every year regardless, flowers die and boyfriends have to work.

I'd rather get a potted plant because you were walking down the street, the sun was shining, you had your new favourite song stuck in your head, it was a Tuesday afternoon, and you suddenly thought of me. And maybe you saw one of those stupid little dogs in a matching sweater and booties, and that made you smile too. And you knew I'd make fun of you for thinking the dog was cute, when in fact I'd secretly think the dog was cute too. But you'd know that. You'd know that I secretly think those stupid little dogs in matching sweaters and booties are adorable.

So you'd bring me home some African violets. Those suckers live forever.