Everyone knows the special feeling of spending V-day all alone, curled up in the basement with a handle of vodka and a whole box of Q-tips, flipping channels in a blur of tooth-grinding self- loathing, trying to find one fucking station that isn’t playing The Philadelphia Story. Or perhaps I’m projecting. But you see my point. Valentine’s Days spent solo are why we have a waiting period for handguns around these parts. Being horny and lonely in the middle of February is miserable enough without being surrounded by nonsense about true love and anatomically absurd representations of the pulmonary muscle.

And then, there are the happy couples: Those smirking, blissful shithooks, teetering around arm in arm, giggling like mental patients, groping and stroking and smooching, making sounds like a boot stuck in a mudhole. Valentines Day brings them out like sloppy drunks on St. Patty’s. They may go home and throw the entire kitchen at each other while screaming about one another’s primordial stupidity and inexcusable sexual shortcomings, so WHAT if the neighbors can hear, but as long as you’re around they’ll be stage-whispering scorchingly lewd endearments and climbing into each other’s clothing IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CEREAL AISLE where you just wanted to get some Froot Loops to take home to your empty room and eat in bed with no milk.

In the same way that serious drunks sit out St. Patty’s and true sociopaths disdain April Fool’s, people who are actually in love should have the good taste to content themselves with a huge pile of roses and a private session with great costumes and lighting on V-Day. Unless, of course, you have a sadistic streak and get off on Public Displays of Affection (A term I have issues with as far as common usage goes. I figure a display of affection is something like holding hands; but my girlfriend always trills “No PDA!” when I’m tearing at the back of her neck like a mongoose at stoplights. I think that’s more a Public Display of Naked Lust), in which case what the fuck.