IT’S here again, the season of love. Incurable romantics look forward to February and each Valentine’s Day even more than Easter (but less than Christmas). The excuse to have love on the brain comes around rarely, and couples everywhere relish the opportunity for public displays of affection, to openly shower the beloved with tokens of love. People look on with indulgence, harking back with a little sigh, remembering how it felt to be in love, too.
Couplehood—morphing into the singular being US—is the ultimate Valentine’s Day goal. Wretched is the female singleton at Valentine’s—a love pariah, unworthy of a date, roses and chocolates. With any luck, girl—you will survive the ghastliest 24 hours of the year without suffering more than a low grade ‘Wish I was in love’ fever, mild pangs of ‘ I’m lovable why aren’t I with anyone’ chest pain, and some ‘Poor me,” post-crying jag nasal stuffiness and headache.
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