Valentine's day always pisses me off. I still don’t understand why people choose to grasp onto one day of the freaking year to be close to their significant others like its some kind of birthday or something. All this phoney cuteness, and abundant pink makes me want to kick a puppy in the head… repeatedly… till it dies.

Last year I asked myself weather or not prostitutes received more business around valentine’s day; you know, from lonely lost people who feel the need to quell their lack of lovin in a non-platonic sense. I even posed myself the question seriously enough to attempt contacting two escort services in Montreal which I conveniently found on Google (I’m certain the cops haven’t yet discovered this method of purchasing sex yet, so I assume it’s fairly safe). Anywho needless to say the persons on the receiving end of my transmission weren’t amused, or must have assumed that I was some kind of porn junk mail, for no reply was forthcoming. Alas! My question will remain forever unanswered. I can however tell you with certainty that this Valentine’s day will be extra special for the whores since it’s a hockey night, and sex-workers always gets more business on sports nights. I know this because an ugly stripper told me. She wanted to smoke a joint with me, but forgot to come back with the weed.

A few years ago myself, Number 65, and Nissou found ourselves single and studying in the Concordia Library on Valentine’s day. The event severely brought us down, incapable of focusing on our work. Naturally this became the topic of conversation, and I rather brilliantly suggested that only the very single, and very ugly could actually remain studying in the building on a day like this. Naturally we tested our theory and began browsing the silent halls of the Hall Library looking critically at every homo-sapien specimen present in the edifice. After achieving certainty and satisfaction that we were indeed the hottest looking members of our respective genders, we proceeded to celebrate this startling realization with my good friend Mr. Sleeman. Several beers later, everyone in the bar around me was way hotter than me, and I was feeling sorry for myself.

The following year ironically found us all in relationships, resulting in all three of us ditching our respective significant others with the goal of re-creating that rare moment of bonding which had occurred the previous year. I think we chose a different bar this time, and somehow everything seemed different, armed with the knowledge that I had lied to my S.O. a the time, about all the studying I had to do, when in fact I only wanted to get wasted with my friends. Now recreating a moment is hard, if not impossible, but I recall having a decent time that year.

The following year was bad to my ass so I was unable to perpetuate the tradition.

After much philosophical debate, I have concluded that Valentine’s day is not only a travesty to the true romantic, but also a pathetic attempt at the insecure to maintain their hold on those who are too good for them (not to mention the serious amount of cash which the restaurant and greeting card business rakes in, CHING!). I, on the other hand have, since then, been forthcoming about my feelings on Valentine’s day with my playmates, and my intentions to introduce some mind-altering chemical or other in my blood stream in protest of this sad sad day. Maybe this year I’ll go watch the hockey game.