10 Emotional Stages of Realizing You're #ForeverAlone on Valentine's Day

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Over the holidays, you were riding high. Your cuffed friends had to endure the gauntlet of awkward holiday family scenarios. They were dealing with drunk, creepy uncles and overprotective alpha male brothers while you were focused on seeing which of your high school classmates needed comfort as they worked through their divorce. Your boys were enduring a family dinner at Applebee's while you were banging an Applebee's waitress in the bathroom after her shift. Then came the doldrums of January. "There is still time," you thought. You had hope. The February 1 girlfriend is every man's dream—if you could land a lady this late in the game, you would be set up for V-Day sex without the V-Day credit card expenses. But, alas, that girl never came along...

Oh shit! Things didn't turn out as planned. No beautiful co-ed came to your door asking to borrow a cup of sugar. That young urban professional didn't "accidentally" drop a letter so that you could pick it up and start a conversation at the post office. Yvette at the strip club still won't return your texts. It is time to step your game up, or at least hit the step machine. You head to the local gym, stride confidently up to the the thick-necked dude in the polo shirt behind the counter, and plop down half a month's rent in initiation fees. No, you don't want to sign up for personal training. Yes, you would like a treadmill facing this evening's yoga class, thank you very much.

Once February rolls in and Punxsutawney Phil didn't see shit, you know you're in trouble. You don't actually tell your friends of your frustrations; men don't talk about feelings until someone dies or they watch Braveheart together. Your pent up frustration has to go somewhere. You find yourself critiquing your friends' Valentine's Day plans. You point out that their ladies are taking up a little too much of their time. You mention, offhand, that your buddy has, "been kind of a pussy" lately. You become the swaggering alpha male, railing off that tired "bros before hos" mantra. You don't like the man you've become. But, here you are, angry and alone.

You are a desperate man. It's time to turn to self-improvement. Maybe if you learn how to whip up a dope casserole and post it on Instagram you'll land a lady. Perhaps if you start live-tweeting Scandal, one of your followers will think you're all sensitive and shit. You contemplate taking up gardening, Pilates, volunteer work, and any number of other things you wouldn't normally be caught dead doing in the hope that maybe the girl of your dreams is just waiting for you in that "Recreational Pottery" course at the community center. Several hundred dollars and a half-assed pot later, you learn that she isn't waiting for you, and that you definitely don't have a knack for the pottery wheel.

This is the absolute low point: you let your friend set you up on a date. You hear the same old shit you've heard time and time again. "You should meet Tanya. She's nice." You know very well what "she's nice" means. She's either big, crazy, or going through a nasty custody battle. You've done "nice" a dozen times before. You don't need "nice" again. But, there you are, at Applebee's, because she's a dental hygienist and had to work late, and that's all that was around. There you are at some pricey Asian fusion restaurant with portions smaller than the ones they give to your uncle who just had gastric bypass. There you are at some trendy café, where you spent twenty minutes peering under floppy hats trying to figure out which girl looks like a Christine. There you are.

Time to pull out the big guns. You will no longer rely on friends and family to find you a woman. You certainly won't be relying on the cruel hand of fate to turn you toward a Valentine. No, it is time to swipe and swipe and swipe until someone, anyone, swipes back. They rarely swipe back, unless you are good-looking enough that you really don't need Tinder to get laid in the first place. And if you are, good for you. I guess you're just reading this article for sick, twisted schadenfreude purposes. If that's the case, I'll give you something: The only girl who has swiped me back on Tinder is shooting a rifle in her photo. That's her only photo. Her—shooting a rifle. You may ask why I swiped "Yes" in the first place. Once you go through the next four steps, you'll understand. Oh, you'll understand all too well. Once you've stared into the abyss, you'll swipe anything.

Fuck it. It's time for sweatpants. It's time for Papa John's cheesy sticks on speed dial. It's time to sit, numb and alone, scrolling through galleries of celebrity side-boob. It's time to get caught up with the Game of Thrones books before the season premiere. It's time to call your mom. It's time to text your ex-girlfriend. No, not that one. The one before that one. It's time for...

This is your favorite stage. Well, at least at night it is. Drinking is taking the happiness you could have tomorrow and trading it for more happiness tonight. Of course, the cost gets higher as you get older. Once you're twenty-five, not only do you feel the beers you pounded, you also feel the burger you ate while you pounded the beers. You feel the sleep you missed while pounding the beers and eating the burgers. Eventually, you'll get to the point that you won't be able to move the next day, let alone go to work. This is probably why people get married in their late twenties. Drinking hurts worse than domesticity. But at least you'll feel something that night. You won't care if you get shot down by the girl standing next to the jukebox wearing a ponytail even though she's almost thirty. You won't care if forty chicken wings sounds excessive. You won't care if in front of your ex's house is a bad place to drink a brown-bag forty. You curse the cruel, cruel world. Yeah, drinking is great.

Last week was a blur, but you're pretty sure it's February 13 now. Time has run out. You are going through yet another Valentine's Day as a single man. Will you always be single? Maybe. Of course, you're only a few years from that first round of divorces, so that will put a few girls back on the market. Your ten year high school reunion is coming up. Maybe you'll strike up some romance over Swedish meatballs and pigs in a blanket. You heard that your high school sweetheart kicked her husband out, so that's something to check out. Oh, who are you kidding? Things aren't changing any time soon. Maybe you can focus on your career or go to grad school or something. If you don't get around to that, at least there's...

It is no coincidence that House of Cards drops on February 14. It's also no coincidence that I'll be binge watching all thirteen episodes that day because, well, I've got nothing else going on. You don't either. You've already wrestled the cruel hand of fate and realized that romance just isn't in your immediate future. You don't have to watch House of Cards. Let's be honest, the show isn't nearly as good as it thinks it is. Also, for all the sex on that show, there is way too little nudity. And if there is nudity that involves Kevin Spacey, you might hurl. Netflix is better than a relationship, no matter what you're watching. You don't have to wait more than one date to see a girl naked (especially if the show is from Showtime or HBO or Starz). You know exactly what kind of commitment you're getting into. And if you don't like a show, no one will fault you for breaking up with the series. Grab some brews from the corner store, dim the lights, and plunge in to some premium streaming content. You may never find the perfect woman for you. That's just how it is. But you'll always have Walter White.