Singles On Valentine's Day Quotes

The thing about Valentine's day is that people discover who are single and who to feel jealous of.

YOU You are that song that plays rarely on the radio, But when it does I have to sing it out loud… You are the water that formed a puddle on a rainy day,that I played in, When I was only eight years old. You are the first snowfall of the season, And the reason I like the morning... You’re a single seashell that washed up onto the shore. You are my set of old medals Hidden deep in a drawer… You are the sun, the moon, the stars, and all the planets. You are the first breath of a baby just born. Eres una dandelion que encuentro, I pull, make a wish, then blow. You are the sunrise that I tried to paint after I woke up in Eilat. You give the nights its meaning… to dream, while others just sleep. You are my 3rd grade valentine, Read, frayed and loved a thousand times. Eres perfección envuelto en humildad… Eres oro, plata, y diamantes… Eres mi querido viejito Pooh, que nunca lo abandonare. You are my first time driving my brother’s Impala, When I was just fourteen. You are the name hidden deep inside my name… And I’m the fingers interlaced with yours. Eres el PS: I love you at the end la carta, Y yo soy el PS: I love you too. Somos el principio, el medio y la ultima palabra De mi libro final. Eternamente nosotros, nosotros, nosotros… Porque nosotros siempre es mejor Que solamente… yo… YOU

It's funny. Friendships are Catch twenty-twos when you're single and in your thirties. Friends are your life rafts. You try to help each other meet people, you confide in each other, you spend Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, all those emotional land-mine holidays together. But sooner or later one of you is going to meet someone and be gone into the world of couples.

For the past month and a half, it's been inanely hot every single day. Someone's bound to feel a little homicidal now and then.

Weekends, End of the month, your birthday and Valentines day will remind you how single and how lonely you are.

When he arrived, he found that the two most important women in his life—his mother and his young wife—were dying. At 3:00 a.m. on February 14, Valentine’s Day, Martha Roosevelt, still a vibrant, dark-haired Southern belle at forty-six, died of typhoid fever. Eleven hours later, her daughter-in-law, Alice Lee Roosevelt, who had given birth to Theodore’s first child just two days before, succumbed to Bright’s disease, a kidney disorder. That night, in his diary, Roosevelt marked the date with a large black “X” and a single anguished entry: “The light has gone out of my life.

I’d like all of you to ask yourselves what you would have done, were you a student here in Valentine Morgenstern’s day. Would you have joined the Circle? Would you have stood by Valentine’s side at the Uprising? Raise your hand, if you think it’s possible.” Simon was unsurprised to see not a single hand in the air. He’d played this game back in mundane school, every time his history class covered World War II. Simon knew no one ever thought they would be a Nazi. Simon

A person who has had the misfortune to fall victim to the spell of a philosophical system (and the spells of sorcerers are mere trifles in comparison to the disastrous effect of the spell of a philosophical system!) can no longer see the world, or people, or historic events, as they are; he sees everything only through the distorting prism of the system by which he is possessed. Thus, a Marxist of today is incapable of seeing anything else in the history of mankind other than the “class struggle”. What I am saying concerning mysticism, gnosis, magic and philosophy would be considered by him only as a ruse on the part of the bourgeois class, with the aim of “screening with a mystical and idealistic haze” the reality of the exploitation of the proletariat by the bourgeoisie…although I have not inherited anything from my parents and I have not experienced a single day without having to earn my living by means of work recognised as “legitimate” by Marxists! Another contemporary example of possession by a system is Freudianism. A man possessed by this system will see in everything that I have written only the expression of “suppressed libido”, which seeks and finds release in this manner. It would therefore be the lack of sexual fulfillment which has driven me to occupy myself with the Tarot and to write about it! Is there any need for further examples? Is it still necessary to cite the Hegelians with their distortion of the history of humanity, the Scholastic “realists” of the Middle Ages with the Inquisition, the rationalists of the eighteenth century who were blinded by the light of their own autonomous reasoning? Yes, autonomous philosophical systems separated from the living body of tradition are parasitic structures, which seize the thought, feeling and finally the will of human beings. In fact, they play a role comparable to the psycho-pathological complexes of neurosis or other psychic maladies of obsession. Their physical analogy is cancer.

Some days I wake up and I want to eradicate every single thing of his from my life. I want to erase every single memory and all our history. And then every other day I pray that I’ll never ever forget him.

FRIEND: Any advice for being single on Valentines day? ☹ ME: Whenever you see a couple laughing or kissing, start crying and scream at the guy saying…. ME: “HOW COULD YOU??!! YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND NOW THIS?!?!?! IT’S OVER” Then slap him and walk away, that would be interesting. FRIEND: This is why we are best friends

Nothing in my life had prepared me for this.Not one single thing.I feel like a lad rat stuck in some horrible experiment meant to measure how I adapt to brutal forms of social segregation and weirdness.And the sad news is,I'm producing way below average results. I stand to the side of the lunchroom or cafeteria,or whatever they call it.The vegetarian lunch Paloma packed with great love and care tightly clutched in my fist,though I've no clue as to where I'm supposed to go eat it. Having already committed the most heinous crime of all by sitting at the wrong table, I'm not sure I'm up for trying again.I'm still shaken by the way those girls acted-so self-righteous and territorial,so burdened by my presence at the end of their bench. It's the seniors' table, I was told. I have no right to sit there. Ever. And that includes holidays and weekends. "Duly noted," I replied, grabbing my lunch and standing before them. "I'll do my best to steer clear of it on Christmas.Easter as well.Though Valentine's Day is a wild card I just can't commit to." And though it felt good at the time,I've no doubt it was a reckless act that only made things worse.

I've been waiting for you," he murmured. Aphrodite slowly walked across the balcony, as her mind raced, trying to think of the perfect thing to say in return. All of a sudden a thought came to her that she didn't quite understand, but she knew it was right. It was also important, and would immortalize her and her actions for thousands of years to come. "Happy Valentine's Day," she purred, as she fell into his arms, still holding the box of chocolates and a single red rose.

Maria managed to avoid Oliver for most of St. Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t difficult-apparently he spent half of it sleeping off his wild night. Not that she cared one bit. She’d learned her lesson with him. Truly she had. Not even the beautiful bouquet of irises he’d sent up to her room midafternoon changed that. Now that she was dressing for tonight’s ball, she was rather proud of herself for having only thought of him half a dozen times. Per hour, her conscience added. “There, that’s the last one,” Betty said as she tucked another ostrich feather into Maria’s elaborate coiffure. According to Celia, the new fashion this year involved a multitude of feathers drooping from one’s head in languid repose. Maria hoped hers didn’t decide to find their repose on the floor. Betty seemed to have used a magical incantation to keep them in place, and Maria wasn’t at all sure they would stay put. “You look lovely, miss,” Betty added. “If I do,” Maria said, “it’s only because of your efforts, Betty.” Betty ducked her head to hide her blush. “Thank you, miss.” It was amazing how different the servant had been ever since Maria had taken Oliver’s advice to heart, letting the girl fuss over her and tidy her room and do myriad things that Maria would have been perfectly happy to do for herself. But he’d proved to be right-Betty practically glowed with pride. Maria wished she’d known sooner how to treat them all, but honestly, how could she have guessed that these mad English would enjoy being in service? It boggled her democratic American mind. Casting an admiring glance down Maria’s gown of ivory satin, Betty said, “I daresay his lordship will swallow his tongue when he sees you tonight.” “If he does, I hope he chokes on it,” Maria muttered. With a sly glance, Betty fluffed out the bouffant drapery of white tulle that crossed Maria’s bust and was fastened in the center with an ornament of gold mosaic. “John says the master didn’t touch a one of those tarts at the brothel last night. He says that his lordship refused every female that the owner of the place brought before him.” “I somehow doubt that.” Paying her no heed, Betty continued her campaign to salvage her master’s dubious honor. “Then Lord Stoneville went to the opera house and left without a single dancer on his arm. John says he never done that before.” Maria rolled her eyes, though a part of her desperately wanted to believe it was true-a tiny, silly part of her that she would have to slap senseless. Betty polished the ornament with the edge of her sleeve. “John says he drank himself into a stupor, then came home without so much as kissing a single lady. John says-“ “John is inventing stories to excuse his master’s actions.” “Oh no, miss! John would never lie. And I can promise you that the master has never come home so early before, and certainly not without…that is, at the house in Acton he was wont to bring a tart or two home to…well, you know.” “Help him choke on his tongue?” Maria snapped as she picked up her fan. Betty laughed. “Now that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? Two ladies trying to shove his tongue down his throat.” “I’d pay them well to do it.

She melted the butter in the pan. She warmed the egg yolks by immersing them in a bowl of hot water and mixing them with vinegar, then pouring in the shining golden butter little by little. She moved the whisk ceaselessly, making the contents of the bowl whirl round and round. Having observed Chizu's troubles up close, and learned how to avoid them, she succeeded in producing the fine egg-colored foam relatively quickly. Her whole hand, from the wrist down, was dancing on a waltz. The tigers in the book, whose desires had kept them spinning round and round until they transformed into butter, had ended up in the stomachs of Little Babaji's family. Even after their deaths, Kajii's victims continued to be exposed to and consumed by the curious gaze of the general public. Rika had stopped believing that any blame lay with the victims themselves. Being sucked into the vortex of Kajii's ominous power, like she herself had been, was something that could happen to anybody. Thinking this, she went on single-mindedly whisking the butter. Through her adventures with the quatre-quarts on Valentine's Day, she'd learned that waiting on the far side of all of this seemingly endless whisking was not stasis or evaporation, but emulsification. If she couldn't tear her eyes away from Kajii, if she couldn't stop herself from spinning round and round, then maybe all that was left to do was to grip on to Kajii with all her might, so as to ensure she wasn't shaken off. 'Done!' Rika said to herself and lifted up the whisk. The sauce of warm, bright yellow that came dripping off the whisk was smooth as cashmere.

Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine, Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine! Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain, For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain. All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair! The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one, Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun; The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree. The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small, None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball; The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives, And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves; The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won, And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son. The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune, The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon, Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows, No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose. The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide; Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue. Now to the application, to the reading of the roll, To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul: Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone, Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap'st what thou hast sown. Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long, And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song? There's Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair, And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair! Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree; Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb, And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time! Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower, And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower — And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum — And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!

Do we need to talk about my kissing you a year ago? I’ve behaved myself for two weeks, Ellen, and hope by action I have reassured you where words would not.” Silence or the summer evening equivalent of it, with crickets chirping, the occasional squeal of a passing bat, and the breeze riffling through the woods nearby. “Ellen?” Val withdrew his hand, which Ellen had been holding for some minutes, and slid his arm around her waist, urging her closer. “A woman gone silent unnerves a man. Talk to me, sweetheart. I would not offend you, but neither will I fare well continuing the pretense we are strangers.” He felt the tension in her, the stiffness against his side, and regretted it. In the past two weeks, he’d all but convinced himself he was recalling a dream of her not a real kiss, and then he’d catch her smiling at Day and Phil or joking with Darius, and the clench in his vitals would assure him that kiss had been very, very real. At least for him. For him, that kiss had been a work of sheer art. “My husband seldom used my name. I was my dear, or my lady, or occasionally, dear wife. I was not Ellen, and I was most assuredly not his sweetheart. And to you I am the next thing to a stranger.” Val’s left hand, the one she’d just held for such long, lovely moments between her own, drifted up to trace slow patterns on her back. “We’re strangers who kissed. Passionately, if memory serves.” “But on only one occasion and that nearly a year ago.” “Should I have written? I did not think to see you again, nor you me, I’m guessing.” Now he wished he’d written, though it would hardly have been proper, even to a widow. That hand Valentine considered so damaged continued its easy caresses on Ellen’s back, intent on stealing the starch from her spine and the resolve from her best intentions. And she must have liked his touch, because the longer he stroked his hand over her back, the more she relaxed and leaned against him. “I did not think to see you again,” Ellen admitted. “It would have been much easier had you kept to your place in my memory and imagination. But here you are.” “Here we are.” Haunting a woman’s imagination had to be a good thing for a man whose own dreams had turned to nightmares. “Sitting on the porch in the moonlight, trying to sort out a single kiss from months ago.” “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Ellen said, her head coming to rest on Val’s shoulder as if the weight of truth were a wearying thing. “But I’m lonely and sometimes a little desperate, and it seemed safe, to steal a kiss from a handsome stranger.” “It was safe,” Val assured her, seeing the matter from her perspective. In the year since he’d seen Ellen FitzEngle, he’d hardly been celibate. He wasn’t a profligate Philistine, but neither was he a monk. There had been an older maid in Nick’s household, some professional ladies up in York, the rare trip upstairs at David’s brothel, and the frequent occasion of self-gratification. But he surmised Ellen, despite the privileges of widowhood, had not been kissed or cuddled or swived or flirted with in all those days and weeks and months. “And now?” Ellen pressed. “You show up on my porch after dark and think perhaps it’s still safe, and here I am, doing not one thing to dissuade you.” “You are safe with me, Ellen.” He punctuated the sentiment with a kiss to her temple then rested his cheek where his lips had been. “I am a gentleman, if nothing else. I might try to steal a kiss, but you can stop me with a word from even that at any time. The question is, how safe do you want to be?” “Shame

However, there have been close calls where we were extremely lucky that there was a human in the loop. On October 27, 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, eleven U.S. Navy destroyers and the aircraft carrier USS Randolph had cornered the Soviet submarine B-59 near Cuba, in international waters outside the U.S. “quarantine” area. What they didn’t know was that the temperature onboard had risen past 45°C (113°F) because the submarine’s batteries were running out and the air-conditioning had stopped. On the verge of carbon dioxide poisoning, many crew members had fainted. The crew had had no contact with Moscow for days and didn’t know whether World War III had already begun. Then the Americans started dropping small depth charges, which they had, unbeknownst to the crew, told Moscow were merely meant to force the sub to surface and leave. “We thought—that’s it—the end,” crew member V. P. Orlov recalled. “It felt like you were sitting in a metal barrel, which somebody is constantly blasting with a sledgehammer.” What the Americans also didn’t know was that the B-59 crew had a nuclear torpedo that they were authorized to launch without clearing it with Moscow. Indeed, Captain Savitski decided to launch the nuclear torpedo. Valentin Grigorievich, the torpedo officer, exclaimed: “We will die, but we will sink them all—we will not disgrace our navy!” Fortunately, the decision to launch had to be authorized by three officers on board, and one of them, Vasili Arkhipov, said no. It’s sobering that very few have heard of Arkhipov, although his decision may have averted World War III and been the single most valuable contribution to humanity in modern history.38 It’s also sobering to contemplate what might have happened had B-59 been an autonomous AI-controlled submarine with no humans in the loop.

Dear Readers, Valentine's Day! And to those who are single, I'd like to say something. Society has misconstrued romantic love and has certainly misunderstood love in general. What we believe to be romantic love is actually attachment, lust, and fear (of loss). Society preaches passion as a function of romantic love, and passion CAN be a function of love, but it functions where one demonstrates heroism, selflessness and sacrifice to benefit the life of another. It has nothing to do with touch nor sexual desire. Love is everything. Life teeters on the spectrum of love and fear. Love is multidimensional, beyond the experience of mere emotion. Love is a hand extended to the shoulder of a distressed stranger, the smile of a child, it's the gratitude towards something beyond ourselves when circumstance benefits us. Anybody who has told you that you need another being to supplement your experience of love has misguided you. To live meaningfully is to celebrate love everyday.

As for us single people. Lets not hate people who are in relationships, because of our single life. Lets let them enjoy their day. Its not their fault that your single. To all lovers out there… Happy Valentines Day.

hasn’t yet missed a single day.

The thing was, I forgot that Valentine's Day when you were single was completely different from when you were in a relationship. If you were shacked up with someone and said you didn't celebrate, no biggie. But when you were single, you got the LOOK. And you got the comments about how you would find someone some day. After about six hours of that, well, even I was starting to feel a deep sense of unhappiness crushing down on me. I literally felt weighted by it, like there was something trying to drag me down to the floor where I was expected to cry and bemoan my singledom like any respectable woman steadily heading past acceptable marriageable age.

She doesn’t just live anymore; she accomplishes living. After all, she could do something fantastic in the morning, but if she doesn’t live through the afternoon to tell anyone about it, the fantastic thing won’t matter at all. Better to live through the whole day, even if you don’t get much else done. So she gives herself a very tiny little bit of wiggle room and grace on the visiting and cleaning, but she is strict about the living and hasn’t yet missed a single day.

To lovers out there … One day we must break away from the myths that if you single and not dating. It means you are well mannered , raised well and you are a good person. If you’re dating then you are ratchet, wild, fast forward and you like things. Most people who are not dating is not by choice but is by circumstance . Some are not dating because they can’t find right partners. Some are in the closet. Some they fear to be heart broken, pregnancy ,commitment, to be burden. Some are busy don’t have time. Some don’t have money. Dating doesn’t make people hoes. Not dating it doesn’t make people saints either.  We should stop bad mouthing, slandering, name calling, slut shamming people who are trying their best to find right partners or to find love. Especial when we can’t do what they are doing because of our fears, even thou we also want what they want. To be loved .

Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate being in love. Unless you’re single and lonely. Then it’s called Laundry Day. ~ Dane Cook

Now isn’t the time,” Val suggested. “You don’t feel ready, you’re having second thoughts, or you don’t particularly relish getting involved with a man who’s the target of impending mayhem.” Much less, he thought, one who had only one reliably functional hand, even after more than a month of abstaining from his music. He was pushing her, but he wanted out from under the uncertainty of his reception in her arms. It had been almost a week since they’d been what he could call intimate, and in the intervening days his desire for her had only grown. “Now is the time,” Ellen said softly. “But if you let me think about it, I’ll lose my nerve and make excuses, and I don’t want…” He pulled back to survey her velvety brown eyes, finding them so somber as to unnerve him. He wanted this joining to be pleasurable for her, joyous even. “You don’t want?” “To never have known what it’s like,” she finished the thought, “to be with you like that. To be your lover.” Warnings went off in Val’s head, as her words could mean she wanted only a single experience of him, wanted a taste, a sample, nothing more. He wanted more, he wanted more than he deserved of her; he wanted to devour her, to make a feast of her, and to offer himself for her delectation too. Ah, well. A man worked with what life gave him, and life was giving him this opportunity with Ellen. He folded himself back down against her lap in gratitude and felt her hand stroking the back of his head. The moment was made complete and more memorable by the sudden gentle tattoo of rain on her roof, a showery patter that presaged a good, soaking rain, not merely a passing cloudburst. “Valentine?

There's always an Oswald. There's always the husband who takes his wife to Paris for Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day? The rest of us schlubs can barely remember to come home with a single long-stemmed rose. What does he think he's doing? And love is no defense. We don't care how much you love her--you don't do Paris. It's bad for the team.

VALENTINE'S DAY: Ang pinakamatinding reminder sa isang single na wala siyang partner.

My father always buys big bouquets for my mother every year for Valentine’s Day . . . her birthday. Their anniversary. He sends them to her. Doesn’t hand them to her. A man who has the money to buy expensive bouquets who hands a woman a single flower . . . or even picks one for her as they’re walking in a field. That’s different.

Valentine's Day—the one day when even single folks get caught up in the swirl of romance. Whether you're showering your sweetheart with affection or indulging in some self-love, it's a time for heart-shaped chocolates, cheesy cards, & maybe even a spontaneous declaration of love. And let's not forget those anti-Valentine's Day parties for the rebels among us. No matter how you choose to celebrate, just remember: love comes in all shapes & sizes.

Some girl would be on YouTube three years from now, doing her makeup while she covered the chilling Valentine’s Day death of a local single Burbank nurse, who died because she didn’t have a boyfriend to walk her to her car. No, thank you. Kill me tomorrow.

It was Valentine’s Day in Sedona. I had never been much for the holiday. As a matter of fact, I maintained some pretty cynical views on it. I used to call it “National Singles’ Awareness Day,” or “You Might As Well Slit Your Wrist Now, Cause You’re Destined to Die Alone Day.

I was not getting unalived on Valentine’s Day, on principle. Some girl would be on YouTube three years from now, doing her makeup while she covered the chilling Valentine’s Day death of a local single Burbank nurse, who died because she didn’t have a boyfriend to walk her to her car. No, thank you. Kill me tomorrow.

You had hoped in love. You had believed in its existence. Its goodness. The richness of a life bathed in it. You went in search of it. Hoping. Longing. Risking. Trusting. And at some point you found love, or what you thought was love. And you gladly immersed yourself in it. Freely. Joyfully. With the whole of your being. And then at some point, it turned. Violently. Wickedly. It did what loves doesn’t do, or least what it’s not supposed to do. It used you. Betrayed you. Wounded you. And then it cast you off to some cold isolated place to somehow bear your pain in the worst kind of loneliness imaginable. And in those places we are left with the bitter feeling that love was a grand hoax. A childish hope. An antiquated myth set on wounding those who fall prey to its seductive promises. But I would tell you to never let those who abuse love define it through their abuse of it. To the contrary, there is something pristine and untouchable about love. Something transformational. Life-altering. Life-giving. Yes, people abuse it. But when a single human being sets the whole of themselves aside in order to freely love another, magic is set in motion. And it is my prayer that the hope of the love that you have always longed for will never be crushed by those who have crushed you. Rather, may you believe, may you wait, may you hold hope close, and may you be blessed when the love that you thought not to exist unexpectedly seizes your heart, rubs your soul warm, and ignites your life. This is what I wish for you.

Void infinite still valentine to valentine.

They get upset about Valentine’s Day because it makes people who are single feel ostracized and “perpetuates cisgender heteronormative” couples.21 They hate Christmas because Santa Claus is white and it’s a Christian Holiday.22 They hate Easter for the same reason. Many can’t even celebrate Martin Luther King Day because instead of remembering the legacy of the man and the impact he had on Civil Rights, they use the day as an excuse to blame white people again for all of the problems in the black community. Liberals even complain about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day now because they make “non traditional families” feel bad, and the holidays celebrate the traditional family, traditional gender roles, and heterosexual couples.23 All of this insanity will be examined in detail throughout this book, and it’s really going to blow your mind; so I hope you are ready, because things are about to get even more weird.

ME: Don’t you just hate being single on valentines day!? FRIEND: Yeah. Its so annoying.. I wish I had a girlfriend ME: Well, your single, I’m single.. ME: We don’t have to be single on valentines day…. Maybe we should… FRIEND: …sign up for match.com! good idea

One in February and one in May. That’s around Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, which is when, understandably, demand for carnations is highest. This demand is reflected in the search volume for the “carnations” keyword.