The seed of hatred for this holiday was planted on that day, and after years of being alone on the big V, bloomed into full-grown loathing my sophomore year of college. I was dating my first (and, objectively, my absolute worst) “serious” boyfriend for about five months when Valentine’s Day rolled around. I’d not-so-subtly let him know how important this day was to me, because I was 19 and I’d never had a boyfriend during the holiday before. “It’s easy,” I’d naively told him. “Just get me a card and some flowers. Literally the carnations from the bodega at the corner will be perfect.” He, of course, did nothing — and I mean absolutely nothing — resulting in our first fight and the beginning of my realisation that he didn’t really care all that much about me. (This didn’t stop me from dating him for another six months, however.)