Send Me a Pot of Cheese, So That I May Have a Feast Whenever I Like

Valentine's Day.

For Valentine's Day, I took myself to dinner and then to Starbucks. The evening started out well - hopes were high, romance was in the air, music had set a wonderful mood - but then I made myself mad and now I probably won't get lucky. But I digress.

I ate alone. This isn't a lament about being single on Valentine's Day, but rather an observation of my dining tendencies. Epicurus said, "Before you eat or drink anything, consider carefully who you eat or drink with rather than what you eat or drink: for feeding without a friend is the life of a lion or a wolf."

I'd always pegged myself as a loner: even before I became jaded and cynical, I preferred the company of myself to that of a group. I take road trips alone and spend Friday nights with a book. I write and read and arrogantly posit that the conversations in my mind are more engrossing than those with my peers would be.

Loners, though, are never lovers. There is no intimacy, no closeness, with a loner. A loner is safe, but a loner is never truly happy. A loner is one who has settled for melencholy independence for the sake of safety and security. What does a loner lose? Heartache, suffering, disappointment, love, passion, tears, happiness ....

The loner is nonemotive; the loner may even be a little numb. The loner isn't cold, but the lone may be a little calloused. There is a cure, though - one day, the loner could meet someone whose company he prefers to his own. At least the loner hopes to.