Twice Makes a Trend, Not a Tradition... Right?

It seems I'm inclined to break up with guys immediately following Valentine's Day. At least that's what the resolution of my last two relationships (and, arguably, my only noteworthy relationships) indicate. First I said Adios to NRA on February 16 a couple years back. And, more recently, I felt compelled to give Boy Blue the pink slip a mere week after the dread V-Day.

Oh, actually, no. Wait a second. Maybe this whole relationship ruin via St. Valentine bit started way back in my college days, with The Professor...

Okay, so he wasn't actually a professor. He was really a PhD student, but he sure did like to lecture folks about (gag me) history and the like. And, okay, so we didn't actually have a defined relationship, per se. It was more like this:

For reasons that remain mysterious to me, I liked this dude. For reasons at which I can make a reasonably educated guess, this guy liked me only enough to drunkenly coax me into his bed on and off for the better part of three years. For reasons I'm too ashamed to admit, I found myself there more often than I'd like to remember.

When we weren't in bed, we had a tumultuous relationship, often punctuated by drunken arguments and periods of each of us pretending the other didn't exist. But looking back on the whole affair now, I realize that the majority of the animosity surfaced as a result of how one bleak Valentine's Day played out.

Despite my utter lack of any theatrical prowess whatsoever, I somehow found myself recruited into my college's performance of the Vagina Monologues. I had a minor role and only had to speak a couple of lines in two different scenes.

About a week before the big day, I found myself sitting alone at the bar of my favorite and nearly-empty watering hole. The Professor strolled in and perched on the stool beside me. It was then we had an exchange something akin to the following.

The Professor & Belle: [General Pleasantries & Whatnot]
Belle: I'm going to be in a play.
The Professor: Really? Which play?
Belle: The Vagina Monologues. It's on Valentine's Day. You should come.
The Professor: I'll give you my vagina monologue.
Belle: Oh, don't be an ass.
The Professor: [Getting Louder] In fact, I've already given you my vagina monologue... a very specific monologue to a very specific vagina.
Belle: Fuck you.

Right... so... Yeah.

Anyway, on the night of the performance, I step outside before the play begins to feed my addiction to nicotine, and guess who I see? Yeah, that's right. It's The Professor. With a date on his arm.

So, of course, my anger makes my stage fright disappear, and, to this day, I don't even recall the actual performance. All I know is that The Pro-Motherfucking-fessor shows up at my performance -- the performance, mind you, to which I invited him and which he subsequently used to mock me -- with a date. And to add insult to injury? The bitch hanging off his arm is fucking ugly. Hideous almost to the point of deformity. And dull as shit. No personality whatsoever. Seriously.

So, yeah, maybe it is a tradition, after all? Valentine's Day seems to have a way of bringing to light the shit things in a relationship (however loosely I might be applying that term...) that go beyond all the other shit I've been able to ignore.

Aw, holy hell...