How "House of Cards" Taught Me Why I Was Alone on Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day is one of the few times in life I wish I were a woman. Don’t get me wrong: I love making thirty percent more than my peers and peeing standing up, but being a single girl on February 14th is way better than being a single guy.

Yesterday, Twitter and Facebook were full of women proudly proclaiming that they had a date after work, and it was with the Vice President of the United States. Of course these women (except Jill Biden) were talking about Frank Underwood, Kevin Spacey's ruthless House of Cards persona. The single ladies of social media united to bond over their planned binge-watching, while posting those cute Parks and Recreation “Galentine’s Day” cards with uplifting you-don’t-need-a-man-to-complete-you messages on each others' Facebook walls. "House of Cards and Cabernet!" became the rallying cry of bachelorettes everywhere.

Men had no such bond. When I told my friends I planned spend my Valentine’s Day watching House of Cards, I got condolence pats and “Hey man, are you on Tinder? Cuz, you know, lots of lonely girls tonight. You know, if you're desperate.” [Full Disclosure: I am on Tinder, quite unsuccessfully].

As I settled in for 13 straight hours of pulpy political melodrama, I couldn't help but ask myself how I got here. Had all the stupid and selfish romantic decisions I've ever made led to this very moment? Was I supposed to take some lesson from having nothing better to do on V-Day than binge-watch, stream, and masturbate? Perhaps Frank Underwood was sent to me by Netflix to be my Valentine's Day spirit guide. Was I in some twisted alternate version of It’s A Wonderful Life except instead of angel wings, my guide had a comically thick Southern accent? Yes. Frank Underwood was here to walk me through my life's romantic failures and just maybe make me a better man. This is How House of Cards Taught Me Why I Was Alone on Valentine's Day.

Brenden Gallagher is an LA-based writer who spent his holiday self-reflecting. He knows he sounds like he hasn't slept in years.

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Before we get into my romantic failures, let me say this: Frank Underwood would make a better girlfriend than any girlfriend I've ever had. You're probably thinking that's a bit farfetched. Most of you probably aren't into dating murderers. I get it. But, let's review the facts.

1. He hates presents (especially on his birthday).
2. We have the same favorite food (ribs).
3. He knows what he wants out of life (and whom to kill to get there).
4. He's a Civil War buff (I'm not, but you have to have hobbies, right?).
5. He not only is down with, but initiates, threesomes (though I would like it to be two women and not two dudes for the record).

If a woman could boast these qualities, I would put a ring on it no questions asked.

House of Cards does not do subplots well, but neither does my memory. There were two episodes that could've easily been cut from season one. The first involved Frank returning to his home district to deal with an accident caused by a peach-shaped water tower; the second featured a homoerotic encounter with a member of Frank's college a capella group. I had forgotten these and remembered season one being tighter than it was. I was disappointed to relearn that a season of House of Cards means taking 13 episodes to tell nine episodes worth of story as I waded through season two.

I remember my best relationships in much the same way. Everything was great until she left for reasons totally unrelated to me. Who has time to remember the terrible Thanksgiving dinner with her family? Why recall the fights about whether or not to get a kitten? The mind likes simple narratives. We all have our peach water towers and gay a capella encounters; we all remember six episodes when really there were thirteen. And when you remember the best six episodes of past relationships, how can a new full season relationship live up to that?

"There are two types of Vice Presidents, doormats and matadors, which one do you think I intend to be?"

Okay, so I don't think this is actually a reason I'm single; I just had to call this out. How does Spacey deliver bad puns like they're profound poetry? Yeah, we get it. The doormats (your opponents) get trampled and you get out of the way. That's been the whole point of the series so far. Yet, I found myself nodding along as he said it, as though he we pulling out a Hamlet soliloquy. "He's not a mat," I thought to myself, "he's a mat-ador! I get it ..."

Actually, this sort of pun analysis may be part of the reason I'm single.

House of Cards is like a relationship with amazing sexual chemistry; I overlook almost any bad parts because when it's good it feels sooo good. Watching Frank Underwood work the machine is one of my great television pleasures of recent years; I get a high when I watch his plans unravel. I forgive the show for tossing plots aside without explanation. I don't mind that some of the characters are barely sketches. I am even willing to overlook scenes where they take forever discussing appropriations bills.

The same is true of relationships. Sometimes, the sex is so good you just don't care. Who cares if she gets too drunk to return your calls? Why should it matter if she doesn't introduce you to her friends? You can get used to her Tea Party affiliation, right? Even years after you break it off, you still find yourself sending those 4 am winking emojis because it was that good. To all my attempted 4 am booty calls, and you know who you are, you are my House of Cards. Please don't respond to those winking emojis. It's best for us both.

Because House of Cards feels the need to throw us a curveball each season, episode five of season two heavily features Civil War reenactors. You may find these people kind of crazy, but we all stage reenactments of some kind, don't we? Who hasn't attempted a sexual reenactment? An old girlfriend comes into town on business. You go home for the holidays and run into an old flame. I know that the first thing that goes through my mind when I run into an ex-girlfriend is whether or not I can pull off a sexual reenactment. Who knows, maybe we can capture what we had for the briefest of moments before we lose it forever. Or at least, I can get laid tonight.

I had this one girlfriend who reached out to me over Facebook after five years without seeing her. She happened to be in town. I put on my most flattering v-neck and skinny jeans and met her at the bar. She bought my beer, but ordered a seltzer for herself. I thought that was weird; then I learned it wasn't that weird after all. She called me there as part the atonement step of AA. She told me how happy she was with her current boyfriend. She apologized for how she treated me. There was no reenactment. But, hey, should has to break up with him eventually right?

When you don't know what to do with a TV character, two common moves are to have them find God or make them gay. House of Cards said "Why not both?" with Rachel Posner (Rachel Brosnahan) this season, and actually, I totally bought it. Though there were a number of plot points I didn't buy in season 2, Rachel meeting her lesbian lover at church wasn't one of them. I don't have any experience with being gay, but pretty much all of my teenage sexual experiences began in church.

If I could give teenage boys one piece of advice, it's to get involved in church theatre. Most of the boys surrounding you will either be there for theatre or for church (and they're probably virgins), so you will find yourself in, as Frank Underwood would say, a position of leverage. And if you have a problem with that, let he who hasn't gotten to second base with a fellow Sunday School teacher cast the first stone.

Sadly, I no longer have access to the church crowd, as institutionalized inequality has left me disenchanted with organized religion, so now I go to the bar instead.

I've been to Vegas twice and didn't get laid. I'm here to admit it so other men can come forward and we can end the great national charade. Entering a casino does not guarantee you sex. Every time a character goes to a casino in television or film they hook up with a bartender, stripper, or waitress. Anyone who's ever tried to hook up with a bartender, stripper, or waitress knows just how hard that is.

There's no way bald, crazy Doug Stamper (Michael Kelly) gets to have sex with the hottest casino waitress in Kansas City. Both times I've been in Vegas, I've been approached by a woman (which rarely happens when I'm not in Vegas) with lines like "Do you like kissing?" Three hours later, I have gone home alone. The first one turned out to be married. The second said she "would find me on Facebook later" after three hours of dance floor grinding. I'm fine if what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. All casinos are good for is losing your shirt and quality buffets.

Season two of House of Cards is dead set on bringing back as many characters from season one as possible. The winner for "most contrived reappearance" has to be Adam Galloway (Ben Daniels). Claire has ended her affair with Adam on at least three separate occasions, but somehow, she keeps pulling him back in.

I've yet to see "staying friends" after a break-up in real life be anything more than a way for the person doing the dumping make the dumped feel better. It's a blow-softener, not an actual arrangement. Only on television shows and in your dreams do old flames show up on doorsteps looking for closure. Then again, I've never taken nude photos of political wives, so perhaps I don't have a proper frame of reference.

It's not prestige drama unless characters are name-checking musicians and authors for no reason in particular. In season two's ninth episode, Frank goes on a tangent about jazz or blues because the writers were listening to Robert Johnson in the writer's room or something. Back in college, when I went to a girl's apartment or she came to mine, at least half an hour would be dedicated to scanning the bookshelf. You had to establish credentials back then; if there's no Vonnegut or Bukowski to be seen, should we really be having sex?

There is no need for pretension when choosing lovers or TV shows. We list our favorite authors on OKCupid because we don't know what else to say, not because it means anything. I wonder how many great women I missed out on back in the day because they didn't like bands that I don't like anymore anyway.

One of the reasons I love watching House of Cards is that it's one of the only shows that I can legitimately enjoy and hate-watch at the same time. No series on the air right now follows up a brilliantly crafted monologue with a totally unmotivated plot twist like House of Cards. Hate-fucking and hate-watching are two underrated pastimes.

I had my first hate sex this summer with a co-worker I couldn't stand. The sex was the best; we even texted back and forth after, pretending we liked each other to facilitate more hate sex. It never happened again, because who is going to clear space in their calendar for repeat hate sex? That seems psychotic. Hate-watching, on the other hand, can be done between things. Set your DVR to record any show with the word "housewives" in the title and you're in business.

"There's this person. She's not even in my life except on the edges making things blurrier. She doesn't tempt me to drink. It's more like she feels like what it was like when I was drinking."

I always find myself troubled by how much I "get" what Doug Stamper says on this show, considering he's a lunatic. The feeling of getting wasted and the feeling of hooking up are forever intertwined in my mind. They are both easy thrills that feel like something more in the moment. Both are the socially prescribed way to survive being poor and in your twenties. I'm pretty sure you can't even live in New York City without a sizable dose of both. Booze gets you laid more, but it's not the kind of sex that leads to anything but another trip to the bar. Stamper understands that they're both shortcuts to feeling something like love when the real thing isn't available to you.

The penultimate episode is always the best episode of a cable drama. Rather than ending on a cliffhanger, season two of House of Cards ends with a whimper. That whimper may set up next year's action, but the big question gets answered in grand style right at the end of the second to last episode. I think the TV people are just following biology with this one.

The second to last time you have sex with a lover is also the best. The last time has that "for old time's sake" feel to it. It's already over and it's just something to remember you by. The second to last time you have sex, you both know it's over, but you haven't quite admitted it yourselves yet. There's a desperate "maybe we can make it work" quality to that sex. It's not sentimental; it's more "I'l show you what you'll be missing" sex than it is "once more with feeling" sex. Good on HBO for finding our natural rhythms and exploiting them; good on Netflix for copying HBO.