Arrow tipped hearts hurt like hell, and while it may not be a day one has to celebrate, it certainly goes all out to highlight what you’re not doing, and with whom you’re not doing it.

I wonder that if there is a hell, this is what it would be like every second of every day, because if it is, I’d rather have the flaming pitchforks. It would be more humane.

So here comes Valentine’s Day, yet again, and yet again for the past 20 years I have no one with whom to celebrate it. One might as well write a dirge, light the manuscript afire, and plunge it into my chest.

Not that I’m being dramatic. There comes a point, in loneliness, where drama just becomes the natural way to think. Suffice to say, it’s not drama when you really do feel this way, when the things that used to make you feel better just lie there inert, listless, useless, and cold.

Valentine’s Day isn’t a requirement, and yes, it’s made up, but it’s kind of difficult to avoid all of the messages that cause you to drown on its treacle for weeks until the day finally arrives. The kicking doesn’t really start, though, until you’re on the floor.

Happy, uh, yeah.