Pez and broc, I’ll show up at the performance and then you won’t need any other hot chicks. 
I hate Valentine’s Day. Never had a boyfriend on that day (or any other, for that matter) and I hate having to watch all my friends get candy and flowers and crap like that. I kinda like the idea of a bunch of single people getting together and going out, dressed in black. Maybe I can find some friends to do that with.
Michi
[denial]
Valentine’s Day? What’s Valentine’s Day? Never heard of it…
[/denial]
You could always find a guy who’s like-minded, and agree not to exchange gifts at all… he’ll love you all the more for not putting him through the same stress. 
I am torn. I think the notion of Valentine’s Day is more about lining the pockets of Hallmark and Willy Wonka than it is about sentiment. On the other hand, this will – barring surprise developments – be pretty much the first Valentine’s Day in my wretched existence that I will have a reason to celebrate. Oh, the anguish!
I hate any holiday that seems to exist mostly as a marketing ploy. So I hate Valentine’s Day, “Sweetest Day” (whatever the fuck that is), Christmas, Halloween, and to a lesser extent Thanksgiving and Easter. Note: my distaste has do with the marketing push around these holidays, not the religions that celebrate them.
When it comes to Valentine’s Day I am a big fat hypocrite. I admit that it is a truly commercial holiday, and I realize that it was invented mainly to make money for companies that sell candy and cards and flowery stuff.
HOWEVER, I do admit that if my boyfriend doesn’t say happy Valentine’s Day and give me a kiss or do something else special I might be a bit disappointed. The holiday might be a scam, but it IS an awfully nice scam.
[depression]
It’s so depressing to watch all my friends get candy and flowers and crap like that. To hearing Tom Jones sing “Love Is In The Air” just makes me want to puke.
Society pushes this damn holiday on all of us, damit I think I will just have to push it right back.
[/depression]
My plans for Valentine’s day involve wearing all black, going to work, coming home and getting VERY drunk.
I fucking HATE Valentine’s Day.
…and it’s only January 23rd…
O.K., I am now in official ‘screw this holiday’ mode after being bombarded with displays in a really big chain store of coffee and books.
I have turned on my worst punk albums and am currently purging my head… (ahh, the Dropkick Murphy’s…)
broccoli!
Don’t like v-day at all. Every year I seem to get more and more bitter.
I had a boyfriend last year. I don’t think he even remembered that it WAS V-Day.
This year, I’m dating Jester, need I say more? Yeah, I guess so… He’s sweet and all, really!, and it’s not that I don’t have faith in him, I’ve lost faith in the day.
This year, in Anthropology, we were told that love doesn’t exist. It’s just something we make up to feel special and above all the other animals. Completly imaginary! Like the Easter Bunny or democracy…
I’m starting to float towards that idea…
I’d just like to take this time to remind all of you that a proper way to celebrate your disgust with Valentine’s day is to instead observe February 14th for it’s true reasons…my birthday. I don’t need any pink hearts or boxes of chocolate. A simple gift of money will do, and it will really be sticking it to those danged purvyors of cheap holiday junk.
Hey, not only am I alone, I have a dentist appointment. Talk about adding injury to insult…
This reminds me of a tradition in my fraternity. It’s an engineering school, where the guys outnumber the girls at least 3:1. Every Valentine’s Day (which we refer to as Black Day), those of us without girlfriends get together. We drink Colt 45 and play drinking games. Recently, it’s been the Reservoir Dogs Drinking Game, wherein you drink whenever the word “fuck” is used in Reservoir Dogs. We never quite finish this, as it’s about 16 beers worth of drinks. My record was the time I had the Colt 45, then five cans of Busch, and for some reason felt compelled to have another Colt 45, which was warm and flat by that point.
Yes, I realize that Colt 45 is bad. That’s the point. We’ve been known to threaten those who attempt to not finish. I think we also always get an extra Colt 45, because I was inadvertantly omitted in '97, which was when the whole thing started.
It’s third grade. The night of February 13th. Mom has finally relented and agreed to buy the cheap little paper Valentines they sell by the checkout stands. I know what’s coming so I beg, I plead for a second box. She is ruthless. “I can only afford one box,” she says, tossing another carton of cigarettes into the shopping cart.
At home, in my room, 9:45PM, way past my bedtime. My head pounds, sweat pours down my face. The list of my classmates sits before me. You know, the one the teacher passes out each year for Valentines day, with all the boys in the class in the right-hand column, all the girls on the left. The paper is full of pencil marks and little bits of eraser.
The little pink box came with 34 Valentines, plus the extra-large teacher card. There are 33 kids in my class, 18 boys and 15 girls. There is no margin for error. 25 of the Valentines are the safe “You’re my buddy” type. The other 9 are the dreaded “Be Mine”. There are definitely fewer than 9 girls in the class I would ask to “Be Mine”.
The struggle begins. Right away I assign all 18 boys a “Buddy” card. 7 “Buddy” cards left. Those are easily assigned to a handful of girls. Two of the girls I like get a “Be Mine”, my heart jumping out my throat as I write their beautiful, magical names on the card. Now the hard part. 6 girls left and nothing but “Be Mine” cards. What am I to do? Two girls of the girls are my buddies. They’ll understand, maybe even think it’s funny. 4 girls. Maybe I’ll steal “Buddy” cards from a couple of my guy friends, give those to the girls, give the guys the “Be Mine” cards as a joke. Yeah, it’ll be funny. 2 girls left. One is the mean girl who doesn’t like me. She’ll taunt me all year. The other is the shy, unpopular girl with glasses even thicker than mine. I’m afraid she’ll think I’m making fun of her. She might even cry. Forget it. I have my own problems. She’s on her own.
My mom’s yelling at me to go to bed. I have no recourse. I simply write the last two names on the cards, stuff them in the envelopes, get a paper cut on my tongue when I seal them up. I lay in bed awake all night, living out horrible fantasy after horrible fantasy.
The next day I drag myself from bed, eyes bleary, heart pounding, hands shaking. At school I tremble in nervous, painful anticipation until after the lunch recess. Then the moment is upon us. Like a zombie, without looking anyone in the eye, I drop the labeled envelopes into the decorated sandwich bags taped to everyone’s desk. I feel the shame of not being able to afford the Sweethearts most other kids included with their cards. Finally, it’s done. I sit at my desk and slowly open all the cards I received.
EVERY ONE of my cards is a “Buddy” card. A small part of me dies.
That’s why I hate Valentines day.
Thanks, DocDaneeka, I had completely blocked out all memories of Valentine’s Day (aka VD) in grade school. Ah, the true enjoyment of counting out your valentine’s only to realize that the only kids that got less than you were the truly pathetic…and the joys of trying to figure out if it was better or worse to actually give a valentine to the boy you really liked; give him one and he thinks you like him, or not give him one and he’ll think you like him…
First, let me explain/remind you all that I have not had sexual contact of any sort in ninety days, three hours and twenty minutes. My desperation is such that I have resorted to partial sobriety in order to better my chances. I hope this conveys the solemn importance I place on my getting laid soon.
Until my plans solidified, I rested squarely upon the horns of a dilemma. I had two choices. I could grit my teeth and ride out the next two weeks, praying that my next order of Astroglide arrives in time. Or, I could go out there, perhaps get lucky, and suffer the hellish Obligatory Coital Proximity date.
All of you know what the OCP date is. It’s like finding yourself in the proximity of a bomb with too little time on the clock to safely run away. It’s like cresting a rainy hilltop going too fast on a motorcycle and seeing a line of stopped traffic and a four-foot gap between your lane and the oncoming cars. You have dared to engage in irresponsible sexual relations within a nebulous but clearly regognizable time frame just before Valentine’s Day.
Therefore, no matter how fat or thin, dorky or arrogant, rich or poor your random mate, you are compelled by honor to invite your new partner to enjoy Satan’s Own Day with you. And that partner is compelled to acquiesce.
It doesn’t matter if you like the person or not. You won’t anymore. The OCP date is not about love; it is about the tedium of extrication with minimal damage. All of your emotional energy is sucked into the votex of false decency. If successfully done, survivors of an OCP will walk away feeling vaguely facetious and cheap. If it degenerates into yet more sex or worse, a relationship, you will forever carry the curse of the OCP date, the night when nothing could be perfect because neither person knows jack shit about the other–besides the fact that you’re both kind of easy.
But I’m going to be out of town that day! I can hit on all the women I want to–Hell, even the ones I like–because circumstance will prevent me from arranging the OCP date. It’s a bonus! It’s a pick-up line! “Hi there. You know, I’m going to be out of town over Valentine’s day. Would you be interested in coming back to my place tonight?”
Schwingggg! SK’s gettin’ in there baby! Just you watch!
Oh yeah, and fuck Valentine’s Day.
Sofa King - you da bomb! ROFLMAO!
Yes… Valentine’s Day is one of the more grotesque travesties ever to be foisted on the long-suffering people. (I’m glad I’ve never even heard of ‘Sweetest Day’, whatever that is. Just the name makes my teeth hurt.)
It’s clear that these so-called “holidays” are just transparent attempts to manipulate people into spending. The generosity allegedy at the heart of the occaision has been almost erased by greed and artifical guilt…
<sigh> And thanks for reminding me of the essential cruelty of the school Valentines-Day card exchange. Even in the first few grades of school, children take every opputunity to be cruel, exclusionary and hateful.
I don’t have time for this shit. I have to take care of my aging father–a real family relationship. The corporations can go {PiG-13] themselves.
(Two of my best friends got <shudder> married on Valentines Day. In a blizzard. After many struggles, they have survived. But the difference between the saccharine sweetness of the Day and the reality of life is astounding.)
A group of my friends have decided to have an anti-Valentine’s day party, but of course it is on the weekend when I cannot attend…