I was sitting outside the Arbor next to the Penis Registration guys, spying on a girl who had an admirable glare going at someone. I looked over to see who the recipient was, and I saw a young man carrying a bouquet of flowers and getting bombarded by offers to register his member. The flower wrap even had little pink hearts all over it. The girl broke into her backpack and pulled out a cigarette. I thought, “Yeah girl, I know what you are feeling.”

I, and many other women like me, will spend Valentine’s evening on the couch with extra-buttered microwave popcorn watching reruns of “The Cosby Show.” All the while, we know that Abercrombie and his bitch, Fitch, are getting it on downstairs.

I know I’d have to be a wretch to really despise Valentine’s Day. Who could hate a day when people buy trivial trinkets at remarkably high prices to give to their significant other, inevitably leading to sex?

I could. Because the gift I’ll be getting will probably be from my mom, who I will of course pass off as my secret admirer. I’ll likely be having a hot date with Eddie Vibrator while dancing around in front of the mirror in my new red G-string I’m “saving up” for next year.

Unfortunately this makes me a bitter person. But it doesn’t make me the only one.

I’m taking an official stand against Valentine’s Day. It’s a sickeningly sweet capitalist creation intended to make single women feel bad about themselves. I am maintaining my stance until we have a Single’s Day, a Beer & Blow Jobs Day, or I have a boyfriend.

So for all the companionless folks who’ll be spending this Friday staring down couples and masturbating, I have created a healthy venting exercise. Below is the blueprint for Valentine’s Day hate mail, dedicated to whomever you feel like blaming for your sexless night. Write your own with friends, roommates and, at the very least, get some shits ‘n’ giggles out of an otherwise nauseating day for singles.

Earn extra points by printing it in a Nexus Valentine’s box. Cheers.

“Dear Jerkoff:

When I looked up your future on the Magic 8-Ball, it said, “outlook not good.” A gerbil could get me off better than you. You always mess up jokes. You whine all the time and you run like a limp ostrich. You think ‘accessories’ is synonymous for a neon ‘fanny pack.’ Which is why I think you’re colorblind. You slaughter every conversation with your breath alone. You have a lisp worse than Fez on ‘That ’70s Show.’ You have a curious growth underneath your right toenail that is turning green. You pass cashed bowls. You walk into glass doors on occasion. I’ve seen you kill wounded soldiers when no else is looking. I’ve seen the poop stains on the seat of your underwear. Your teeth are crooked. I know that your B.O. stinks worse than most people’s do, which is why you appear to be followed by flies. You lay silent farts and then deny the smell like nothing happened. Your middle name is the same as my pet dog. You were first in line to see ‘Kangaroo Jack’ and you know it. You terrify small children. You run out of gas with uncanny consistency. You suck at playing cards, and I knew about all the times you cheated. You are completely inept at shaving, which is only superceded by your incompetence at aiming your dong. You already know the punch lines to “Three’s Company” reruns. You’re wearing a Bucs jersey and you’ve never even been to Florida. You lie continuously to have something to say. You wet your bed until you were 9. You are a drain on society. You say things like ‘financial albatross’ instead of ‘really expensive.’ I know you hide boogers under the coffee table. And if I saw you walking down State, I’d cross the street.


Your biggest fan.

P.S. My strap-on dildo has been doing wonders for your ex-girlfriend.”

Daily Nexus sex columnist Beth Van Dyke teamed with Eddie Vibrator to conceive this column.