And the wet dog look?  Who me?  Never in a million.

And there you have it, friends, a day in the life.

Blah, blah, blah and so on and so forth and gag me with a fork.

No, I’m not some bitter, single, brooding woman.  Honest.  I just don’t buy into all the hokum.  Never really have.

Now, to be fair, I don’t have a long string of boyfriends, much less boyfriends on Valentine’s Day.  But even if my history was made up of roses and love songs and hand holding, I think I’d still loathe this holiday with the fire of one thousand suns.

Because I’m heartless like that.

I couldn’t count on the hands of every kid in my class how many times I’ve been called a heartbreaker or a man eater or a heart shredder.  And heartless?  Oh, heavens.  The list of people that have called me heartless is the length of Route 66 or longer.

I’m used to it, I suppose, and have done well to earn the title.  After all, I have an infallible two date rule:  the first because I just can’t say “no,”  the second for the “Hey, buddy.  This is never going to work” speech.

Then, there’s the side of me that’s all “Aw, Mom, he’s just so nice.  No, ma’am, he doesn’t like me.  Yes, I’m sure, Mom.  We’re just friends.  Yes, ma’am, he knows that; I’ve told him like 752 times.  Of course, he knows!” 

Which is inevitably followed by the ”I KNOW I should’ve been more clear, Mother.  Yes, Mother, he cried and yes, I know better and yes, you were right and yes, I’m going to quit getting myself into this.  YES, MOTHER.  I get it.”

Heartless.

Blake and I were laughing at this relational history of mine about a year ago as he was encouraging me to start a blog.  He gave me all of this mumbo jumbo about needing a domain name and a site name and all of these other things I didn’t understand. 

“Witt, what do you want people to type to get to your site?”

“Blake, I have NO clue!  You pick it!  I.  DON’T.  KNOW!”

“Well, here’s my take,” he said.  “You’re always talking about being heartless and all that nonsense and then you write these emails home about the heart you have for Colombia and your friends and people, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“It’s settled then.”

And so www.emilywithaheart.com is what people type to come and read these crazy stories of mine, but that doesn’t mean I have to like Valentine’s Day or all of the mushy nonsense that comes in red tin-foiled boxes.

Good thing, too, ’cause I’m determined to hate The Black Holiday forever.

 Even if I do have a heart.