Well, folks. You have just three days left.

Three days to hope Cupid shoots his arrow in the direction of that beautiful creature you so admire.

Three days to find the perfect stuffed animal to express what’s in your heart.

I’m fond of the purple gorilla I saw at Walgreens. In his hand are the letters L-O-V-E, and when you squeeze him, he plays “Let’s Get It On.” You can’t get much cuter than that.

Not that I’d want to. That’s because I’m an intelligent, independent woman (read: bitter, Valentine’s Day-hating single).

You know the type. I’ll be dressed in black Friday. I hate Valentine’s Day as much as Scrooge hated Christmas.

I was telling one of my co-workers this. He said I get bent out of shape because I don’t have a boyfriend. Yeah, right.

In fact, I’m glad I don’t have a significant other when Feb. 14 rolls around. If I did, I’d have to spend too much time preparing. It’s not like Christmas when I can run to Wal-Mart at 10 p.m. on Dec. 24 to buy Dad a tie. There’s way more to it.

First off, if I had a boyfriend, I’d have to find him a card. This would involve standing in the greeting card aisle for two hours, reading each card until I found the perfect one: not too mushy, not too thought-provoking.

After I found a card, I’d have to check out the candy aisle. I’d have to wade through the confused husbands deciding if low-fat chocolate is a good thing to buy and the seven-year-olds picking out just the right colored lollipops to go with their Valentines. (Weren’t those the good old days when you made your own cards and the holiday was just a chance to inhale glue?)

Once I had the card and candy, I’d have to go home and pick an outfit, because if I had a boyfriend, he’d be taking me out. And I’m not talking Taco Bell. It’d be 440 all the way, or he wouldn’t bother picking me up.

To acknowledge his kindness (and turn the heads of the attractive single men there), I’d want to look nice. This would involve ironing my little red dress, which would take an hour. (I iron once a semester, so I’m a little rusty.)

I’d also have to rehearse my facial expressions. Odds are I’d be getting some crappy trinket — just one more thing for me to dust. (Not that I’ve cleaned my apartment lately, but if I did, a 12-inch crystal butterfly is definitely an obstacle for a dust rag.) I’d have to hide my disappointment with just the right smile: not too toothy, not too frigid.

It’s obvious my reasons for hating the holiday are quite logical. Clearly, too much time and thought are required, even for the most basic celebration.

Forget the red dress and gracious smile. Come Friday, I’ll embrace the black fatigue and Valentine’s Day-bashing mantra.

Stephenie King is an English/print journalism double major from Festus, Mo.