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.

Why was I a pig? Because my mouth had just launched some partially chewed cheesecake across the table into her salad. And why had my mouth committed such an unchivalrous deed? Because, out of the blue, she had just said: "You know, for a 21-year-old, I've got a very impressive resume." No lie.

I'm not going to bore you with my sordid history of no-night stands and zipless handshakes. Suffice to say I'm a bit jaded when it comes to Harvard relationships (generally defined as "vicious power struggles between insecure, manipulative egotists"). Suffice to say that Valentine's Day is not my favorite holiday.

VALENTINE'S DAY, as we all know, was named for the Valentine's Day Massacre, a horrific battle in which many men died gruesome deaths and many other men were given equally gruesome speeches explaining why they should just be friends.

This violent episode in American history has traditionally been celebrated at Harvard with events like the AIDS Education and Outreach Valentine's Day Ball. Loving couples would shell out the bucks for fancy restaurants, formal clothing, expensive tickets. When the evening was over, many of the loving couples would become hating couples. The luckier loving couples would just become poorer loving couples.

Meanwhile, pitiful dateless slobs would partake of alternative forms of celebration. These included brisk rereadings of Locke's Second Treatise on Government, fiercely competitive Scrabble tournaments, ceremonial renditions of Mozart's Fourth Oboe Quintet and heated discussions of the socioeconomic and metaphysical implications of pita pizza.

This year, the Valentine's Day Ball has reached out to the pitiful slob community: "I hate Valentine's Day! I never get a date!" the posters blare. So come to the Ball! No date required! Losers welcome!

I'm not sure I understand whether "I" never gets a date on Valentine's Day, or whether "I" never gets a date, period. But I do know that AIDS Education and Outreach ought to mind its own business. "I" doesn't need the emotional anguish of attending the Ball. "I" doesn't need the emotional anguish of ignoring the invitation. "I" has enough problems. Leave me--I mean "I"--alone.

I know exactly who's behind the massive Valentine's Day conspiracy to make "I" feel lousy. People like Tara A. Nayak '92. If you see someone grinning stupidly at a stupidly grinning guy who is calling her "Tarbie," you've found her. Kick her in the shins.

It's sickeningly ga-ga lovers like her who perpetuate torture devices like house Valentines.

"Send a Quincy House Valentine!" one insistent tabler (obviously one of Them, and I pity her spouse) squealed at me.

"No thank you, Satan," I replied, walking away.

"You're not getting any," she said.

I whirled around. Did she say what I thought she said?

"Any Valentines," she explained. "You're not sending any, you're not getting any."

Oh. Thanks for the tip. I tried to leave, but another urgent voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Free condom for Condom Week?"

T.S. Eliot was crazy. February is the cruellest month. No contest.

TARBIE seems to think I'm jealous. Me? Jealous? Of someone whose idea of a good time involves selecting Macintosh fonts for her husband's thesis on agrarian dermatology? Hardly.

But I am bitter. Bitter at lovers who gloat. Bitter at women who say they don't want me to get hurt. Bitter at roommates who eat my Valentine's Day candy.

Only 87 more days until Mother's Day. I can't wait.