I've had the misfortune of having my column appear on Valentine's Day, so I feel obligated to write about kissing and cuddling and all that other mushy stuff.

In order to maintain my manly image, I'm not going to write about some fantastic story where boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy makes girl sign prenuptial agreement, boy marries girl and they live happily ever after in a three bedroom ranch house with a white picket fence and 2.1 children.

Instead, I'd like to write about the dark side of Valentine's Day. Yes! The underlying ugliness of this overcommercialized, hyped-up holiday which is the only time of the year when members of a sexually-repressed society are allowed to think with their hormones.

This is the time of year when guys have to make the big decision whether to spend precious beer money on expensive bunches of soon-to-be-wilted flowers.

This holiday has to be the worst as far as timing goes. Why can't it be in the spring when everything is in bloom and we could simply go out and pick flowers off Old Main lawn?

But no! It has to be in the middle of February when everything is dead and the only things on Old Main lawn are the crucified squirrels and the drunks who didn't quite make it home Saturday night.

So, instead of picking flowers from the lawn, we see the males of State College make their way to florist shops in accordance with the yearly mating ritual of Homo Sapiens Suckerus. In the flower shop they have a variety of arrangements to choose from:

There is the less expensive "I Really Like You But I Still Have To See Other People" bouquet. There is the moderately priced "I'm Really Desperate But I Don't Want You To Think I'm Kissing Your Ass" arrangement.

And finally we have the really, really expensive "I'm So Desperate I'll Spend Any Amount Of Money On You Even If You Don't Appreciate It" bouquet.

Another big decision for the guy is what kind of card to buy. Should he buy the light, funny "I'm not going to risk being labeled a romantic" valentine. Or should he opt for the full-blown pink lace high passion powered "I adore, cherish, but most of all respect you" Hallmark?

Of course you have to be real careful not to mix up the envelopes and thereby send grandma the obscene card with the nude Chippendale dancer on it.

Those guys who live life on the edge can buy candy for their objects of affection. It's a nice gesture, but you risk blame for any weight or acne problems she develops.

Buying a girl dinner, if you can get reservations, is also a popular way of expressing amour. You can drop beaucoup dinero so you can spend an evening worrying whether or not you are using the right fork while your date takes two bites of her filet mignon and says, "I'm full."

Of course then she will order dessert. This is a serious problem, because you'll feel so stupid wondering whether it is proper etiquette to ask your date to slip her unfinished portion onto your plate.

Another way to indicate that you desire someone is through "love lines." We used to see a whole supplement of classified personals like:

"Blonde girl wearing PSU sweatshirt walking in front of Pattee. We glanced at each other. Would like to glance more. Guy wearing PSU hat."

But the personal of the '90s reads:

"Disease-free male seeks infectionless female for V-Day sans V.D. Reply personals. Medical records available on request."

Though I despise this holiday for a lot of reasons, more than anything, I hate Valentine's Day because it marks the time of year when the female population polishes that infamous line: "I really like you -- as a friend."

After reading this column, you'll probably just dismiss me as a guy who is bitter because of the many times he has waited diligently by the mailbox for the Valentine that never came. Nevertheless, I'll not spend today dodging arrows shot by a butt-naked cherub.

I am going to celebrate Valentine's Day this year in the most romantic way I can think of: I'm going to get a heart-shaped tattoo with my Valentine's name in it.

After all, flowers are temporary, ink is eternal.