Now before you women who read this blog gorge one of my eyes out with your PMS claws and call me a douche, let me just say for the record that I did make an effort to make my fiancee feel special this V-day. I sent her a really classy, expensive notebook. Although admittedly, I only did this because she sort of raised the bar a little high back when we were still dating and it sorta became a tradition which I politely honor. I mean, if a girl is sweet enough to spell the word 'Baby' in ginormous letters with little tea candles in the middle of the University of the Philippines' sunken garden–something that almost brought me to tears not because of the sheer romance of it all but because the students hanging out in the garden started throwing all sorts of invectives at me and calling me a fag. (Fucking UP Students I swear to God. I send you all to school with my tax money and you have the chutzpah to insult me? a taxpayer? Fuck you. Fuck you all to hell!)

Suffice it to say that my fiancee's Valentine's stunt tops the best Valentine's gift I've ever given to a woman which was a savage kick to the face of my ex after we got into a fight about whether or not Rachel McAdams was hot.

But since she left and because I'm very horny, lonely and bitter, nowadays, I see V-day as nothing but another stupid, fake excuse the capitalist machine takes advantage of to take money from people who somehow made themselves believe that buying items with hearts, buying flowers, cards or what not and giving it to their significant others fits the definition of "Romance." Because really, doesn't mass producing "romance" on a specific date defeat the supposed spontaneity of true love and true romance? Can't you all see that I am a very principled, sensitive guy? Why won't you have cost-free sex with me? Anyone? Okay.

Really though, just to keep myself from committing suicide out of sheer loneliness, I am planning to do something special for myself tonight. I'm thinking of checking in at a cheap three-star hotel, light little candles on the floor, whip out my laptop, watch random clips from my vast porn collection, maybe masturbate a little (probably while listening to Eddie Brickell's Good Times on my iPod) and spend a couple of hours thinking about how I can breed racist dogs. After that, I don't know. Who knows what the wonderful night holds?

Well that's a lie because I know exactly what would happen. I will end up passing out in the shower where four Visayan janitors would have to help me off the floor and feed me ridiculous amounts of chocolates to get me to stop crying so loudly. Also, the seemingly innocuous candles I lit earlier will set the entire hotel on fire and I'd end up outside the hotel, sitting on the curb, wet with a blanket over my head eating lugaw, watching firemen and people run by, saying shit like "Wow that curtain caught fire REALLY fast!" or "This hotel's fire alarm system could use a little improvement" or "Whose dick do I need to suck around here to get some more lugaw?"