I’ll admit it. I’ve always hate Valentine’s Day. The pressure began back in
first grade, when I stayed awake all night, worrying that I’d be the only kid
who didn’t receive a card at the class party. The entire holiday could, in my
opinion, be renamed “Unimaginative Consumer-oriented, Entirely Arbitrary and
Manipulative, Shallow Interpretation of Romance Created by the Greeting Card,
Florist, and Candy Industries to make you feel miserable Day.”
Now, I believe in romance. I couldn’t have sustained a career for twenty-five
years writing romance novels if I wasn’t a sucker for happily-ever-afters. But
there’s so much pressure to have the most romantic night of the year that it’s
almost always bound to fail.
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