Dear Valentine’s Day,
Hello, it’s me. We meet again. You’d think that by our 18th anniversary I’d have gotten used to you. Apparently not—I still don’t like you, and wish that you would go away, but like that guy in my class who will not stop DMing me, you’re incredibly persistent. Maybe this letter will convince you to do us both a favour, and shoot yourself with Cupid’s magical arrow.
I’d like to start with a point that some may consider trivial, but not me: Whenever you’re around, chocolate prices skyrocket—just like my confidence after a cute guy smiles at me. If you’re all about love, why are you such a capitalist? I’m just a broke student who needs chocolate to cheer herself up. Why are you gouging my sweet, calorific source of joy? Just let me eat in peace, and no one gets hurt.
Secondly, you’re a terrible guest. Everyone knows that you’re coming and they start preparing to deal with your demands of constant gifts and over-the-top displays of affection, which seem to increase monumentally every year. Long gone are the days when a box of chocolates was enough for a potential suitor. Now, every V-day gift has to be perfectly ‘gram-worthy, such as a bacon-rose or sushi-lilac bouquet. In the same way that every bad guest unapologetically clogs toilets, you clog my Instagram feed. Gifts, diamonds, truffles—the stream of pink is endless. That’s not to mention bouquets. Oh, the bouquets: From red roses to edible arrangements, there never seem to be enough ostentatious, ridiculously-overpriced, soon-to-be-trashed, bouquets.
The pictures aren’t even the worst part—that prize belongs to their captions. Consequently, I propose a drinking game: Everytime the words “partner in crime,” or “I don’t want to imagine my life without you,” or “you complete me,” come up on my feed, I’ll take a shot. I’ll probably be blackout drunk in 10 minutes, but at least then I won’t have to remember reading through a two-paragraph ode to someone’s three-week old relationship with a “perfect gentleman” of a boyfriend—who I know for a fact hit on me last night at Gerts.
I’m generally a pretty happy-go-lucky person, but Valentine’s, you bring out the worst in me. I’ve started scoffing at even perfectly-realistic romantic comedies. I roll my eyes at the couples cuddling in the Students’ Society of McGill University (SSMU) lounge. I even judge the gifts my friends’ significant others get them—while still eating all the expensive chocolate contained in said gifts. Let me be clear: I’m not relationship-hungry, I don’t have cuffing season blues, and I’m not a crazy cat lady. I just think that you’re overrated and always in my face, and I need some space. We have a toxic relationship. I need to cut you out of my life. I promise, it’s not me, it’s you.
A disgruntled and perpetual third-wheel