Dear St. Valentine, 

Hey, it’s me again. The hopeless romantic, the daydreamer, the fantasy feigner. 

I give my sincerest condolences and forewarning for the content of this letter. Today I am scorned. Today I am rippled with sorrow, frustration and chocolate induced acne. 

I am not here to spout blame or to point fingers, but if I were, it would be in your direction. 

For you, my friend, are the root of my present disdain. For my never-ending aversion to the color pink, and my preference for sour hearts over sweet. 

It is not everyday that I suffer from these ailments;  however, on February 14th, my symptoms often flare. I am surrounded by proclamations of love, lust, and far between. Oftentimes, I am left pacing aimlessly, pondering at what point serving as another’s valentine became such a defining characteristic of my identity?

I do recall in years past, the rush of leaving notes written in red ink and watching roses grow on cheeks. However, I no longer crave such adrenaline. Instead, I fear such callous interactions. I am caught somewhere in between waving a boombox over my head, or never leaving my room. 

To curtail any further ranting, I will attempt to summarize my unrelenting angst. I do not like you, St. Valentine. For it is your story, and your traditions that plunge me into insecurity. It is your remembrance that creates an environment in which my adolescence is ignored in exchange for my pride. 

Therefore, St. Valentine, I bid you, and your follies farewell. I am reclaiming February 14th, the color pink, and my independence too.

Sincerely, 

Me