Valentine’s Day is a holiday I cannot pretend to understand in any meaningful manner. The one year I had cause to celebrate it, the now-ex and I delayed it a week, and what followed was a messy long-distance breakup. Instead, it is a day that causes me to reflect on my own reactions to falling for people—in my early 20s this led to moaning about ‘Singles’ Awareness Day’ and other such trite nonsense. At this point I just see it as something akin to the Fourth of July—a cultural dissonance that has no personal bearing on my life and merely incites some navel-gazing.

What’s amusing at this point is realizing the positive memories I hold are all short-lived flings where there wasn’t much cause or desire for something longer. The stoner philosopher who attended my college’s rival school. The journalism student who grilled me for hours after learning I write about videogames online (and that people read it!). The boy who claimed he was bisexual in a firm and steadfast manner to make sure I would not judge him for it, and with whom I had an hours long debate over the varied strengths of the protagonists in the Final Fantasy series. Perhaps I desired more with some, but more was not to be had.

At this point, almost seven years single, there is no desire to even attempt looking for much in terms of anything longer term. I would be lying if I denied still having the occasional pangs of self-hatred over it (followed by a mentally raised eyebrow and scoff), but those moments are instead alleviated when I realize I may well have to satisfy myself with flings here and there. Nothing serious. A kiss. A romp. Then goodbye.

A relationship is not guaranteed. It would be nice if we were raised not to expect them.