Happy Valentine’s Day.

I’m not even sure where to start. Maybe I should buy all the readers some flowers or just ask them out for a cup of coffee.

But wait, what if they don’t like coffee, or worse, they do but they have a boyfriend? God I’m so nervous.

I should call. No, wait, I shouldn’t because I don’t want to sound like a loser. Maybe they will call me. Yeah, I’ll just play it cool and wait for them to call.

Why haven’t they called yet?

I know my readers like me. They tell me I’m a great writer and look forward to seeing me every week. But last week they didn’t say a thing. What if I did something wrong? I bet they hate me. I don’t need them. I hate them too.

I should call and tell them that.

Wait, there they are, sitting around reading the newspaper. But it’s some other column. Oh my God, they’ve already got someone else. My life sucks.

Wait, they just threw the paper in the trash. Now is my chance to go up and talk to them. What should I say?

I bet they like hockey. I will talk about hockey because that’s fun and I know a lot about it. But maybe they hate hockey, or got cut from the team freshmen year. That would be the worst. I’m always saying the wrong thing.

Oh great, now they are leaving. I hope they didn’t see me. I didn’t even iron my shirt this morning. I need to do that tomorrow.

Here they come – they are walking right toward me, I shouldn’t say a thing. No, wait, maybe I should. I should say something funny and make them laugh. Here they are saying “Hi.” Oh dammit, I just tripped. I hope they didn’t see that. I bet they did. What a bunch of jerks.

Maybe I should do a high-five or something so they know that I just want to talk for a bit. I bet they would think I’m a creep. Great.

This sucks.

Next time I know what I will do. I will go up and say, “Hey, you read a lot of my stuff and I like that.” Then they will say, “Oh…that’s fantastic.”

Maybe then I could give them some flowers or something. No, that’s a terrible idea. Everyone gives flowers and I need to be different or I’m doomed. These shoes are really uncomfortable.

I read on the Internet that women like guys with red shirts. I’ll go buy a few. In fact, I’ll go buy about 50 and just wear a different shade every day until my readers fall in love with me and ask where I got them. Then I can tell them about hockey. Yeah, I’ll buy a bunch of red shirts and tell them about hockey.

But they hate hockey, dammit. I’d better throw away everything I own that’s red. I hope they aren’t U2 fans, because then I’ll really piss them off. Okay, I’ll keep one red shirt and wear it every week on a day I think I might run into my readers. That’s how to do it. I won’t mention it, but if they ask I can say something about the starving children in Africa. Then I can talk about hockey.

Oh man, there they are with a bunch of other readers. Yeah, I can walk up now because with all of them there I won’t seem like a stalker or something.

No, what if all the other readers hate me. If I just walk up and talk to that one reader, all the others will definitely think I am a stalker. I know, I’ll just go and talk to a few of them and make friends first. Then they will like me and I can talk to that one reader.

No, that’s a terrible idea because then the one reader might leave, or I might say something stupid.

I bet my breath stinks. I brushed my teeth six times today for this and I’ve got my red shirt on. Plus there’s a hockey game tonight. I should ask the readers if they want to go. Okay, I’m going to play it cool and just walk over and strike up a conversation about hockey.

But first I need to get some chewing gum for my stinky breath.

Okay, I bought the gum, but they are all gone now. I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I just walk up and talk about hockey? Then they would have said yes and Mike Modano could score a hat trick and we could kiss to the buzzer. That would be perfect. Years from now when our cool friends ask how we met I could say, “Well it started with hockey.”

Wait. Who the hell is that? It’s some other writer.

He’s the sports writer, the guy who goes to all the football games and gets to write about all the cool stuff. I’ll just casually walk by and see what they are talking about. Oh my God, they are talking about hockey. That is so unfair.

They are all talking about hockey and I can see the other readers are totally into it. How was I supposed to know they liked hockey? I thought they hated it. Why couldn’t they just have worn a hockey jersey some day so I could have known? I wore my red shirt, so it’s only fair that they wear a hockey jersey every once in a while.

He is asking them to the hockey game.

I want to die, God, let me die. Give me a time machine so I can go back 10 minutes and talk to them about hockey. Also, a clean red shirt – this one might have a spaghetti stain on it somewhere.

I just swallowed my gum.

Oh great. He’s hugging them and they are hugging him back. I’d give anything to lock arms with them right now, but I could never say that because that’s weird. They aren’t even like my other friends, so we could never get along. Ugh, this is stupid. They don’t even know each other’s names.

The sports writer has his phone out. I bet they are exchanging numbers so they can have sex later. I should be that guy. Why does this always happen to me?

Who cares? Even if we went on a date and had sex it wouldn’t last long. They’d find out that I sometimes don’t go out on Thursdays and that I actually kind of like reading Cosmo from time to time, and I like to watch TV and laugh at fart jokes, and they’d tell all their friends and never speak to me again.

I don’t need them. I’m fine without them. I hate them and don’t care if they blow up right now into a million little pieces. That’s what those jerks deserve for being so mean.

They are walking right over to me, but who cares? They hate me. I hope they aren’t looking at me with this dumb red shirt on and gum in my mouth for no reason with my worst pair of jeans and the sandals I threw on because they were close and I was late for class.

Why are they smiling? Hands coming up probably to push me away or something, but I don’t care. Hey, get off me. Hugs are for friends and that pat on the back is stupid. I should pat back, but I can’t.

Okay it was just a kiss near my eye – that means nothing. They had to lean way over so they hate me now.

They asked me to the Meadows opera and I said yes. I feel like I have a 3,000-degree fever. Why aren’t I nervous? They are smiling I bet. They are laughing at me. I am going to cut my heart out and throw it into the ocean.

What a bunch of jerks. I’m gonna wear this red shirt again next week and see what happens.