A Belated Happy Galentine's Day

A single gal whose only roommates are feline-Americans cannot mention her lack of enthusiasm for Valentine's Day without sounding like a bitter spinster.  So I shan't discuss the holiday, except to say:

1)  I prefer the Valentine's-Day-adjacent holiday created by Leslie Knope of "Parks and Recreation."  Amy Poehler's Leslie is one of my favorite characters on TV.  I'm a day late recognizing Galentine's Day, but I am very thankful for the wonderful ladies in my life.  My mum, my nanas, my aunts, cousins, and friends are some of the very best people on the planet. 

2) Below is an email I sent on Valentine's Day 2001. It was one of my better celebrations of the holiday.

It is Valentine's Day, and I have suffered a small stroke.  Although I don't harbor any extreme resentment toward this holiday, it is not my favorite.  However, until approximately an hour ago, I believed that the root of my anxiety surrounding February 14 was the painful reminder that another year has passed and I am still utterly alone.  This fact has been dwarfed by the devastating experience that occurred at roughly 9:45pm.  I was taking a break from Invisible Man by watching “Dawson's Creek.”  I procured a cup of animal crackers and a glass of apple juice and sat on my bed.  I was enraptured in the rather enjoyable episode as I munched the tiny circus animals and sipped on my juice.  With about ten minutes left in the program, I had finished my cookies and proceeded to take the last gulp of my juice.  As soon as the beverage entered my mouth I had the strange realization that I was harboring something of a non-liquid state in the area between my teeth and my throat.  I wondered if I had somehow been nasty enough to backwash a nearly complete animal cracker into the juice previously, and thus was about to swallow it now.  I spit the juice back into my glass to see how I had managed the aforementioned feat.  As I approached my desk, I turned on my lamp and was HORRIFIED at what I saw at the bottom of the glass.  Upon recognizing the two inch black worm that was floating in the juice, I began to hyperventilate.  I cannot begin to relay the frantic state in which I functioned for the following moments.  I looked on my computer to see who was around.  [The Dude] was in his room, and I typed "AH!" to him.  While he was responding, I grabbed the phone and hit his number on the speed dial.  I tried to form sentences to impart the terror and disgust that I was feeling as a result of the worm, but all I could do was blurt out fragments that ultimately allowed him to piece together the full story.  I was shaking and darting across my room, and my language was punctuated with the f-word.  I don't think that I have ever used that word so much before in the entirety of my life.  It was a verb, a noun, an adjective.  I was absolutely hysterical.  Meanwhile, [The Dude] bellowed out to the crowd in his room that there had been a worm in my apple juice.  Much to his delight, he conversed with them about the situation while I continued to freak out.  After suggesting that I sue the juice company, he directed me to call my parents, as he was unable to talk.  Quite a help.  Only minutes had passed since the contact with the worm.  I immediately called my parents, although I knew they would be asleep.  My mother sleepily answered the phone.  I asked if she was awake, and sensing the terror in my voice she implored me to divulge my heinous story.  My voice had been in a constant state of shrieking ever since I had spoken with [The Dude], and I continued to screech my plight while Mum patiently listened.  At this point, the hysteria had reached its height.  I was not only shaking, but sweating profusely.  I kept squeezing the top of my head-- trying to contain the mayhem that threatened to blow the top of my skull right off.  Along with the yelling and the abundant swearing, I began to cry as well.  At least 25% of my dialog was composed of the phrase, "Ohmigod!"  After about ten minutes of ranting, I actually began to dry heave.  My mother seemed worried that I would drop dead of a heart attack, and begged me to calm down.  I could only repeat my dismay and my utter disgust over and over again.  I put the worm in the fridge to preserve my evidence and shut the door, which will not open until someone comes to retrieve the little bastard and then disinfects my refrigerator.  I have taken a shower and thoroughly brushed my teeth.  If I had yellow caution tape, I would wrap the fridge in it.  When I was about four years old, I discovered that there was a beetle in my sheets on a summer night.  I cried so much that my family had to allow me to stay up with the adults until I fell asleep on someone's lap.  Around 1993, we again had company, and to avoid cooking dinner in August, we ordered pizzas.  After eating half a slice, I discovered a fly baked into the crust.  Panic ensued.  Then in about 1995, a spider scuttled across my hand as I reached into my sock drawer after we had opened the windows for the first time that spring.  I screamed, people ran in and had to spend the remainder of the day helping to get my heart rate to drop down below 200.  These are the instances that I look back on with terror.  And now, tonight, the worm has eclipsed each of these episodes.  That worm could not have shown up in a worse person's glass.