It’s hard not to go through this time of year without hearing how much people hate Christmas. It’s expensive. It’s stressful. You don’t know what to get people. You don’t get what you want, and you wonder why you couldn’t just buy what you wanted or save the money. The person who hated your gift wonders the same.

Still, I enjoy aspects of this holiday. If you have younger people in your life, it’s easy to feed off of their excitement. I spend Christmas as my parent’s house, sleeping in my little brother’s top bunk. He’s so excited, it takes him forever to fall asleep. Last year was the first year he didn’t spend hours rolling around and occasionally asking ‘Is it morning yet?’, and this was because we stayed up until midnight playing Halo 2 together.

I’m not sure I like getting gifts for people, but I do love watching them open something when you know that they’re going to love it, or are surprised to get it, especially when they weren’t expecting anything. I like watching people open gifts that aren’t from me. It’s mystery.

Yankee swaps (also known as Bad Santa) are great if you do them with the right people. I like them for some of the same reasons: excitement and mystery. But, the real key is humor. It’s not about the gifts being good, it’s about the game. The gift is having a fun time with a group of people that you wouldn’t normally play a game with. One time at a Yankee Swap I brought a pudding cup. I thought I would be shafting someone, but lo and behold, the spirit of the game was there. Everyone wanted this chocolate pudding cup. The person with number one chose it. People mock fighting over a pudding cup was quite entertaining. This game goes awry when someone gets a gift taken away, or gets something crappy, and takes it personally.

That’s a big problem with this holiday. People take it personally when you have a hard time getting them the ‘right thing’ as if there is such a thing. Even if you know a person, you don’t necessarily know their materialistic desires.

But still, the food and drink is always good at least at one of the parties, and maybe more. Besides, there are worse holidays. My least favorite comes right before my birthday, and I have a hard time thinking of any redeeming qualities. Yes, Yuletide has its flaws, but I think Valentines Day is really the worst holiday of them all. Let me take you through a brief history explaining why.

Valentines day is a trip to the drugstore. Pick out a pink box with the least repulsive cartoon characters on it. Quiz yourself on what the names of all the people in your class are, and write them on perforated cardboard. Write your own name on the other line, again and again. It’s like homework. Do I really have to give one to everyone? Yes, I should, because otherwise I probably wouldn’t get many. They’re like cheap baseball cards for yourself. Collect the whole class. The best ones have candy taped on them. They all loose their pizzazz in a day or two and end up in the trash.

Fast forward in the years and we come to Valentines day yet again: the day to feel lonely. Sure, it’s lonely on the Fourth of July when you see a couple leaning to like the poles to a tent under the stars of fireworks, but the barbeque is good and the family still loves you. By the time you reach adulthood, dad stops giving you the candy and the cards- ‘my little girl’, ‘daddy’s sweetheart’ at Valentines. I say fuck it all, the myth of love, and put on the Rocky Horror Picture show. I’m lucky. Transvestite aliens could be holding me captive. I show myself what I rather don’t want to know about Valentines Day.

Years pass, and I find out. We both say we don’t believe in this commercial crap holiday. Then I get you nothing and you show up with a present. Valentines day is about one half making the other half feel inadequate. Saying I love you doesn’t need a special day. Doing something special is always on my mind and in my actions. So why do you do this? I feel this way every year, at the special dinner on that day or close to it. Then one year you’re not there near Valentines, and I receive a build-a-bear in the mail. It says “I miss you so much. Here’s a friend.” I should have been able to predict this was the last year you’d be with me- the last year you’d care to secretly plan something even after we said we wouldn’t. Valentines day is a poorly disguised litmus test.

Love is a lying whore and Valentines is her unholy holiday. This year I make a point to go to a hard rock music show with a friend. Yes, we found one in Portland, Maine. I say she’s my date and make a point to not let any guy get too close without my flailing fists connecting. I indiscriminately piss off a couple of made up monsters who attend the show for the attention to show them a good time. Shows are for dancing, loosing control- letting loose the love lost- fighting the fury of being found, fucking, and being left lost again. Plenty of people understand and give me grins for my moshing, pats on the back, past backing their reactions to my rawness. But if so many understand, then why do I continue to wander from Valentines to Valentines like this, along with the others, but alone? Why is connection so critical and still so easily erased, wantonly walking away unaware of what once was?

My friend elbowed me in the teeth- not on purpose, but full of rapture in song. The sets were done several songs too soon. Of all the loves I miss, I miss music the most when the night is still young and the floor clears; the cardboard figure destroyed with a claymore is removed. I briefly connect eyes with a few friends of someone I once saw for a few weeks. I avoid the gaze of one who wanted to bed me while I thought he wanted something more. He tends to one of the attention monsters. So suddenly my sanctuary crumbles and I stumble outside to the pavement, little sound left after ears are left humming. I’m still sober, but something slips into my step that bore confidence before Valentines day.

I’ll be okay in the morning, until next Valentines Day.