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Volume CXXXIII, Number 15 |
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Another bad V-day
IAN MORRISON
COLUMNIST
If you're like me, your Valentine's Day was spent deleting names from your buddy list while washing down conversation hearts with overproof rum. "Email Me." "Be Mine." Stop Breathing. I Want to Jump. By the end of the second box they all said the same thing: "You're such a stupid, shy, awkward, ugly headcase idiot!" I kicked some things. The living things kicked back.
As we all know, Valentine's Day is the day when we nationally recognize my inability to trick or bribe someone into loving me. I should note, however, that Valentine's Day is about more than just lusty romance and heart-shaped sweets. Valentine's Day is in a broader sense a gluttonous celebration by the "Haves" of their triumph over the "Have-Nots."
Back when I was in Catholic grammar school, St. Valentine was the patron saint of our playground. Every time a girl in pigtails threw gravel in my eye it was because St. Valentine said so. On Valentine's Day the losers in dodge ball were corralled behind the gym and bombarded with rubber balls until our white uniform shirts leaked pink and red (the colors of Valentine's Day).
Of course, some readers might have had a lovely Valentine's Day. Some of you had the night of your life engrossed in "passionate union" or whatever. Perhaps you fed your valentine chocolates in bed or spent the night pressing your nose against the nose of your lover. To those readers, I have news for you: every time you and your smoochy touched noses God kicked a three-legged dog named Tripod. If you're offended by this, then stop reading; crawl back into bed with your hubby and slowly gag yourself with your pillow.
I really shouldn't be quite so mean-in general everyone is kind to the loser without a date. People like me still receive valentines-as if a cheap piece of paper with a care bear on it could make up for the fact that I'm such a stupid, shy, awkward, ugly headcase idiot. "Ur so cute. Happy Valentine's Day!" "Ur"? I guess those who have passionate union don't have time to proofread. Well, this article is meticulous.
With a Valentine's Day history like mine, I would have been content to spend the night locked in my room with 40 channels of cable and a bottle of Jos‚ Cuervo. Unfortunately, I did as one always does in times of decision: I forgot about the lessons of history. I pulled myself out of my hole of sniffles and moist tissues and attempted to go "out on the town." I did the typical singles' thing: I dressed up, called my roommate my date, and went to the usual parties. I didn't last very long. At the parties all I could see was Cupid's arrow flying through the air above the dance floor, stirring up the pungent air and leaving in its wake waves of intense nausea. Ten minutes later I was back at home and in front of the TV watching something far less nauseating: a liposuction surgery.
Several suctions later, I retired to my bedroom and to my desk where I chatted online with some of my guy friends who had signed on from their girlfriends' rooms. Presumably, they were taking a breather from passionate union, perhaps to have a cigarette or order pizza. "BigMan97: Ha. Ur all alone. lol." Again: no time for proofreading.
At least I'm not bitter. As President Mills has often pointed out, diversity of experience is one of the cornerstones of Bowdoin College. This diversity of experience has an impact on all of our lives. Indeed, it is on nights like Valentine's that I am reminded of the fact that it is not our similarities, but rather it is our differences that make me want to run around with a garbage bag sealed around my head.
This article is not intended to be a denunciation or ranting; it is simply the opportunity to whine like a three-year-old. Please, don't feel bad for me. Feel bad for Tripod.
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