MOTHER sent me a Valentine's Day card today. Or was it yesterday?

No, I'm pretty sure it was today. And I'm pretty sure she also sent me a heart-shaped Valentine's Day box of fancy chocolates. Not to mention a Valentine's Day tube of Hershey's Kisses topped off by a Valentine's Day teddy bear with a Valentine's Day greeting ("With Love") knitted into its sweater.

"Happy Valentine's Day, dear," my mother wrote. "Just wanted to make sure I'm still your One and Only."

Happy Valentine's Day, Mom. You've got nothing to worry about.

EVERY YEAR on February 14, undersexed Crimson writers release their frustrations through rambling, sniveling, pathetic diatribes on the abysmal state of their love lives, thinly disguised as indignant double-pronged attacks on the unfeeling cruelties of the Harvard dating scene and the institutional evils of Valentine's Day.

This year, it's my turn.

And it's about time. I started collecting material for this piece at my prefrosh picnic. "You'll get more dates Freshman Week than you'll get the rest of your Harvard career," a grizzled senior promised me.

Freshman Week came. Freshman Week went. Not a good omen for my Harvard career. Neither was my first Harvard rejection, a remarkable construction of logic utilizing four carefully reasoned planks:

1. I don't know you well enough.

2. I don't want to ruin our special friendship.

3. I'm not ready for a relationship right now.

4. My boyfriend would kill me.

I thought her explanation made sense. What else could it be? That she didn't like me? Impossible!

Well, maybe a wee bit possible. For instance, an insignificant other I "dated" (read: spent money on) last summer dumped me for one clearly articulated, genuinely sincere motive:

1. You're a pig.