My Valentine's Day Email
I mass-sent this (like bitter spam) with much help from Jezebel's Postcards)

(While amusing at the utter uselessness of Valentine's Day I decided to write my protest to the holiday (one derived from bitterness, datelessness and a good dose of boredom) and send it out to a few people. Here is the email:

My friends...

... some of who, like me, will spend Valentine's Day in ratty pajamas with a great big quart of ice cream, mocking the 'in love' in between spoonfuls of chocolate chip cookie dough.

Oh, of course, I don't mind. While not quite resolving my life to that of a crazy woman with a cat collective, I think that, instead of celebrating Valentine's Day as its 'supposed' to be celebrated, I'll take to turning the 'holiday' on its head and revelling in a decidedly anti-valentine atmosphere.

But then I realized this would just lend itself to guy-hating, which in turn would lend itself into scary feminism (there is a line to cross, yes) which would lend to me growing a mullet, putting on some track pants and attacking everything of the male persuasion within a 75-mile radius.

Although, a quart -- no, a pint, of ice cream, no a gallon, of ice cream is no real dillema, I'm sure, when I start donning moo-moos and need a 'prying stick' to remove myself from the couch in front of the television, it eventually will be.

So, perhaps, instead, I will just wish all of you an ANTI-Valentine's Day, and make snide, sarcastic comments to those that are celebrating such fool-hardy things.

I'm also going to pretend that fate doesn't have a house full of cats, a broom and a collection of organized and annally arranged knickknacks planned for me. I refuse to be Kathy Bates in Misery.

And yet we all know I will be kidnapping authors and learning about ancient ankle breaking techniques.

So, yeah. Valentine's Day? Bah-humbug. (Here's where I'd add the cutesy 'Bah-lovebug', but I'm not writing greeting cards. Nor am I fixing date squares for the town picnic, giggling over Dilbert cartoons, making doilies or dressing my dog like a person. ('Here Katie.. it'll make you look like a BIKER!', as she attacks and attempts to devour my shin with humiliation and hatred.)

So, Happy Valentine's Day, you fools.

Sarah of the date-less.

And there you have it. If you'd like to participate in more bouts of depression and cynicism, feel free to peruse my collection of Anti-VD links. (Btw, when pronounced VD am I the only one to think of some sort of ghastly sexually transmitted disease?)

The links...