Congratulations all of you beautiful people out there. You’ve survived V-DAY 2K14. Hopefully, you have all learned that public displays of affection make everyone sick. I celebrated my long-term relationship with Netflix and Pizza (yes, I’m polyamorous; don’t judge me) in private, where that kind of intimacy belongs.

Yes, I’m single. Yes, I may be a little bit bitter. But hey, let’s all be real for a minute here. Valentine’s Day hasn’t been the same since elementary-school days. I miss decorating shoeboxes and begrudgingly giving a card to that kid that smelled weirdly of dirt and his grandma’s perfume all the time.

In protest, I went out and bought myself a box of Fun Dip and the Scooby-Doo sticker/lollipop combo pack, and I rejoiced with all my little Valentine’s Day cards. I may have even gone out and taken a photo with a random dude and told my parents he was my new boyfriend just so they would stop calling me “lonely,” “sad,” and “spinster in training.” (I’ll take the time now to say that I am none of those things. I’m a strong independent lady who don’t need no man.).

I’m not ashamed to say that I was invited to several stoplight parties wear green if you’re single, oh, yeah, that’s me … Do I even own a green T-shirt? I avoided them all, partly because showing up in all black and moaning about Faulkner would get me nowhere. I may have swiped yes to several desperate men on “Hot or Not” and “Tinder” combined. Within the same hour. And then I may have fallen asleep. I’m not saying I survived this weekend with grace, but it’s over. And I’m thrilled.

My taken coworkers with all their taken-holiness confessed to me … they wish they were still single. Really? You want to be like me? Constantly reminded by Facebook ads that I went browser shopping for wedding dresses after binge-watching Bridalplasty?

And then I remembered what it’s actually like to be in a relationship.

You have to text people back, you have to compromise on meals sometimes — but I want pizza, but, babe we did pizza yesterday — and after a certain point, always wearing your sweatpants and ripped up comfy tees ceases to be endearing and more so a reflection of the little cares you have left. I don’t want to meet your parents, you don’t want to meet my parents, and yes, I do want to watch an hour worth of cat videos and reruns of the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” on the weekends and do nothing else.  I just want someone to buy me breakfast, lunch, dinner, AND coffee when I need it and then leave me alone to my Twitter feed.

OK, so maybe I take it back. While this weekend proved slightly (terribly, tragically, devastatingly) desperate, I really don’t want to give up a side of my bed (or my pillows, or my favorite part of the blanket, or hard-core starfishing). I mean, after all, Netflix just gets me.