Happy Valentine's Day

I recently gave my class (I’m an Assistant Professor of English at a community college) a writing assignment that is due on February 14th. Valentine’s Day. They gave the melodic “ughhhh” that they tend to unanimously offer when I make them do something that they really hate.

“Happy Valentine’s Day” I said. “But I’m single, so I don’t really care.” Got a few laughs. Apparently, people have a high regard for any excuse to buy overpriced flowers and candy. Guys, if you’re buying flowers and candy, you’re completely unoriginal. Girls, if you’re receiving flowers and candy, you’re extremely lucky. Ordinary is better than solitude, right ladies?

Love thy best friend

Last year on the lover’s holiday, Jay and I had both recently become single after long relationships. We started dating them a week apart, and more than a year later broke up with them a week apart. Jay and I tend to do everything together. I’ll probably send him a Valentine this year, because I think that there is a good chance that we’re soul mates.

There is nothing wrong with celebrating Valentine’s Day with your significant other. If you’re with someone, you might want to celebrate your togetherness everyday, but it never hurts to have an excuse. Valentine’s Day is just a more specific version of Thanksgiving with less turkey and in some cases more chocolate and the color pink.

Love thy bottle

Last year, as a couple of fresh bachelors with the whole world on our platters, we decided to celebrate our singlehood with all the other poor, single freaks at the bar. Of course, we drank a good amount at our house while our taken roommate was out wining and dining his sweetheart. I’m not sure, but I think that our “pregaming” that night consisted of drinking an entire bottle of Three Olives Grape Vodka between Justin, Jay, and myself. If any chefs out there have been seeking out a good recipe for disaster, look no further than: 1 bottle of vodka, Nickel, Jay, Justin, Valentine’s Day.

This part gets a bit blurry. I’m not sure where we went first. Justin somehow detached himself from the group. Jay and I ended up in Sunny’s (no other place like it – the ‘club’ in Fredonia known for underage patrons, hookups, and general douchebaggery), of course talking to all the lonely, single girls desperately seeking Valentine’s Day attention.

There is no better feeling than making out with a random sorority girl on the stage in front of everyone else at the bar. Oh wait… actually, there are several better feelings than that. For example, eating a pine cone. I didn’t care that I despise people that do that kind of thing. I even remember her name … a Valentine’s Day miracle! Amanda.

Jay and I staggered out of Sunny’s, not ready to be done with our rampage quite yet. But it was two o’clock. Last call is two o’clock. What to do?! Luckily, I was employed by one of the fine drinking establishments in Fredonia. They welcomed us with open arms and pint glasses full of gin with a lime and splash of tonic. Too much.

Love thy Queen

It was quarter to three by now. We stumbled into our apartment and undoubtedly disturbed the sweet, sweet lovemaking occurring in our roommate’s bedroom. We both tried to go to bed, but the alcohol needed to get some revenge. Time for vomiting. Jay is naked by now. I don’t know why. He crawled into the bathroom from his bedroom, still nude, and sat on the toilet, needing to poop and puke at the same time. What a horrible combination! But he pulled it off… the skillful and naked drunken Jay, sitting on the toilet, taking a shit and vomiting in between his legs.

But I had to puke too! I was at least partially naked by now as well – I think my pants were MIA. I tried to dethrone him, physically, from my tactical position on the bathroom floor (I, too, had crawled into the porcelain Queen’s chamber from my sleeping quarters).

What a scene. Two naked full-grown (at least physically) men, nude and fighting over the rights to the toilet. I’m pretty sure that everything that I drank that evening found a new home in the bathroom sink. And I found a new bed for the evening – the bathmat. Jay managed to get up and go back to bed after the battle royal… but I didn’t fair as well. Goodnight, sink. Goodnight, shampoo. Goodnight, pile of towels.

Sadly enough, this was my favorite Valentine’s Day in 23. But there is no greater love than that between best friends, bottles, and toilets.

Every writer that has ever touched a pen to a piece of paper writes about love. Maybe not all the time, and maybe not directly. But they all do. It is extremely trite to try and write some insanely insightful, deep look into what ‘love’ is. I’d even call it insulting to the actual experience. Fuck you, Nicholas Sparks! Drivel. Nonetheless, writing about love really tells you about yourself and your experiences with the L word. Try it. I’ll make a very typical and unoriginal attempt at it:

Adam left work and entered the rainstorm that he had watched mindlessly out of his office window all day. He felt down and lonely. He had forgotten his umbrella. Of course, as soon as Adam began his six-block journey to his studio apartment, the rain intensified. It was driving rain, the kind that stings when it hits your forehead. He tried his best to cover his head with his expensive leather briefcase, but the rain was too clever, dodging his best efforts as the wind changed directions frequently.

Three blocks from home, Adam ducked into a tiny theater that he was sure he had never noticed before in countless trips back and forth. He heard music coming from behind the big oak doors that separated the lobby from the actual theater. Soaking wet and shivering, he opened the giant door just enough to fit through and slid into a seat in the back row.

He sat, at first, wringing out his shirtsleeves, pants, and tie, hoping to dry off a bit in the dry stale air he was now immersed in. But his attention quickly drifted away from his wet clothing as he caught her out of the corner of his eye.

She floated across the stage, imitating the wind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The stinging sensation that had been caused by the cold and wet was replaced by warmth and longing. Adam felt something new; the general boredom he had come to know was suddenly replaced with intrigue. He watched intently as she glided back and forth, her feet absolutely silent.

The performance ended and the few people peppered throughout the small theater clapped half-heartedly. But Adam wasn’t finished watching her. He left work early the next night and watched her again. And again the next night. He kept going back to the tiny theater, sitting in the same seat in the back row, and watching the wind. More light, silent feet. More intrigue.

Adam watched her at the same time every night for seven straight days before deciding that he wanted to introduce himself to her. The night of the seventh performance, he walked around back and waited on a step in the alley near the rear exit.

It was a half an hour before she finally emerged. Like he had for the last seven nights, he sat and watched her.

But this time, he watched her as she slid off her tiny slippers and threw them into a big duffel bag. She put on sneakers, let her hair down, and pulled an oversized hooded sweatshirt over her head. She sighed as she heaved the duffel bag up onto her shoulder and raised her cell phone to her ear to check her voicemail.

She walked down the steps, passed Adam, and continued on down the street. He didn’t say a word. Neither did she. He just watched her with a strange sense of horror coming over him. Adam was in love with the wind, not the girl.

He sat there for a few more minutes before getting up, his boredom returning, and began walking back to his small, lonely apartment. Just then, he felt a stray raindrop find its way through the maze of buildings and signs to his right cheek. Cold, boring rain.

Aww, how delightfully sappy I can be. If any pretty girls suddenly feel impelled to go out on a date with me, please e-mail me. Every girl in the world must want Nicholas Sparks, and it makes absolutely no difference what he looks like. Exercising your brain will make you just as attractive as exercising your body. What is the real love muscle: the brain or the labia?

My middle name is Adam. Any time I write about love, it always ends with disappointment. What does that mean? I’m not a pessimist; I think I’m just taking my own route. I wouldn’t even consider any of my relationships as disappointments. As long as you learn something, it is a success. Or at very least, my failed relationships have afforded me material for my future trite, sappy love novel. Drivel.

I’m a sexual optimist. I’m not even sure what that means, but I love to say it.

Happy Valentine’s Day.