Valentine’s Day is nearing and for some reason, I feel slightly compelled to write an entry relating to the occasion. I’m not about to bitch about my lacking a physical Valentine this year (much like last year) because despite the fact that I’m often single (though involved…a situation that sucks more than being just plain single) whenever February 14 comes around, I’m still a big fan of the day. Which I spend celebrating my love for friends. All together now: Sige, maglokohan tayo, Helga.

Given that, I am severely lacking experience when it comes to Valentine’s Day dates. But I’ve had my fair share, and so because blogging about how sad I am gets old fast (and quite honestly, I don’t want to wallow; coping and getting back to happy mode comes to me almost automatically, much like the way I move cards around in a game of Free Cell: I just click click click and before I know it, Mr King’s telling me I just won. Again. Fuck, what was I saying. I don’t want to wallow. There), I give you my five worst Valentine’s Day dates EVER (#5 being the lesser nightmare, #1 being an example of why drunk girls should never make very drunken and bad and stupid decisions to go out with dudes who ask them out two days before Valentine’s Day. YEAH, WE ALL KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING).

5 –

4 –

3 –

2 –

You think I’m stupid (and most likely drunk as I am typing this), but I’m trying to prove a point here. Also, I’m saving you time.

1 – Valentine’s, like, two or three years ago. A couple of days prior to that, the best friend and I went to see The Late Isabel play at Bigsky. No one was planning on getting drunk and we both pretty much succeeded until a few hours before we had to head home when we decided “NO! WE MUST GET DRUNK!”

So there we were, sharing a table with some band we didn’t know. The best friend was busy deflecting the advances of this dude who looked like he needed a shower. I was too busy sulking, as I was hung-up over this guy. And then I saw him.

Aptly enough, his nickname was Zero and he was a drummer, and had I been sober or had I been using my brenz, that would’ve been enough reason for me to Stay Very Far Away. Let’s just say he asked me what my plans were for Valentine’s Day and I replied by asking him if he was asking me out.

Two days later, I was at my dorm room, painting my nails a dark red, drying my hair, and frantically trying to read a PDF file on the state of the State in post-Cold War International Relations for a paper I was working on. I was also waiting for him. I had barely put on my clothes when he sent me a message that he was waiting for me downstairs. Okay. The night’s plans: Slice and Dice Night at Klassy’s. I pack the laptop (yes, I was planning on getting more reading done) and hurry to the elevator.

I get in his car and he gives me a…

Pink plastic heart-shaped balloon. A really tacky one. Something that he most likely picked off of stole from a mall kiosk.

So I laughed it off before sneakily throwing it over to the backseat, and we made our way to Klassy’s place. I say hello to my friends, introduce him, and made sure that he was settled and comfortable in the company of my wonderful pals. And then I set up the laptop on the floor and went to work.

He. Was Such A. Squatter. That’s the only way I could describe him. Okay, so maybe he was just cocky and really annoying. I know I know I know. Maybe I was being the bad date, sitting far away from him, trying to write a paper on my laptop BUT even if I didn’t have work to do that night, I still would’ve stayed far away from him. You know, like what I should’ve done the first time I met him?

What ticked me off was when we’d take smoking breaks out on Klassy’s porch and he’d tail me, sit thisclose to me, and he’d TSK! and make this very kanto-boy gesture with his fingers AT ME— a cue for me to hand him MY cigarette. Like, who said we could share cigarettes? You don’t even smoke!

And then he started laughing at my working.

And then he went off with a friend’s boyfriend to smoke pot.

And then he left early without asking if I needed a ride out of the village.

(I didn’t.)

And then he still expected a good night kiss.

By the way, I ended up not getting more than a page written for my paper. Too much orange juice that night. Spiked with vodka.