For this was Seynt Valentynes day, / Whan every foul cometh there to chese his make, / Of every kynde that men thynke may; / And that so huge a noyse gan they make / That erthe and eyr and tre and every lake / So ful was that unethe was there space / For me to stonde, so ful was al the place.
- Chaucer, Parlement of Foulys, 309-15, c. 1373
Here it is again. February 14th. Good old V-Day. And here I am, spending it alone, wallowing in self-pity. I ate a whole package of Thin Mints for Pete's sake. Well, knock-offs anyway. I usually don't care much about this holiday, with all its cutesy-pootsy plush novelties, its overpriced cards with pre-fab sentiments inside, its insistence that diamonds are the only true testament to romance. But for some reason, this year is different.
It doesn't help that most of my friends are in relationships. I know I'm fine being single, and that I'll get over it. But for some reason, it's really getting to me today.
You know, I thought that pilgrimage I made to the shrine of St. Valentine in Dublin would pay off. Maybe he thought I was too young at the time. I was just 13. Hmm, maybe I should go back. It'd be a good excuse for a vacation...
Wow, I sound a little crazy. I'll be fine tomorrow. No worries.
But I hope my prayer will get answered. Eventually.
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