I’m 8 years old and imagine the Valentine I receive from the cute boy in the class was specially made for me, but mine looks just like all the others.
I’m 17 years old and hope against hope they’ll call my name over the intercom to come to the office on Valentine’s Day because I know that will mean I got flowers or a balloon from a guy, but it never happens.
I’m 28 years old and my husband brings me flowers and chocolates and a card, but the words have no meaning because our relationship has been over almost since it began.
I’m 37 years old and my boyfriend buys me perfume and a balloon and he leaves it outside my door because I’ve kicked him out again, trying to break free of his emotional abuse.
I’m 47 years old and I buy myself a steak and a good bottle of whiskey and a funky new hair color to try because I deserve good things and every girl needs to be her own Valentine.