It is Valentine's Day. I am compelled to write about the subject. I have never had a decent Valentine's Day.

Read my true Valentine's Day horror story.

In elementary school in Aurora, Colorado, as my classmates were distributing their Valentines into the creatively festive and decorated shoe boxes with the little slot at the top, I was full of activity handing out my own Transformers Valentines crammed with candies and cookies and treats and trinkets abound. I took pride and meticulous care putting each Valentine into the appropriate students box. I made, with youngster pride, a special Optimus Prime Valentine, the Transformer leader of the Autobots, for little Sally, a classmate with whom I had a tiny 4th grade crush. She would scoff at my shy smiles. We spent countless hours playing MASH (Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House) during journal time.

Our special school-day party beginning, everyone sat proudly at their desks and we were instructed to open our shoeboxes and begin reading our Valentines. The paper was flying and there were squeals of delight all around me. I tore my lid open to find one Valentine.

"Only one," I asked aloud, a whisper, tears welling in my eyes. But there were over thirty kids in my class. Could this hefty card be from wee Sally? I wonder what words of devotion she scrawled on the card? My hands trembling in anticipation, I slashed it open, tossing the envelope over my head to reveal a Valentine from my teacher Mrs. Davis. My peers had shafted me. I was the fat little nerd who didn't deserve any Valentines. I was the kid who had to wear the eye patch because of a lazy eye. I can still hear their hateful snickering.

I was made fun of mercilessly because of the eye patch. Comments like, "Hee hee you're a pirate," as I was being kicked down the stairs and "It's Valentine's Day not Halloween, why are you wearing an eye patch fatty?" as I was being shoved to the pebbly ground in the play area and "Fat boy, you're such a geek for wearing an eye patch," classmate Rudolph would say, "You don't need this burger," as he took the cheeseburger from my lunch tray and shoved it into his filthy gob.

The pointing and laughter didn't help me adjust to the eye patch. It only made me withdraw even more into my fantasy world in which I was lord and ruler. My teachers would try to help me in my grief, but they only made it worse with accidental comments, "Yes One-Eyed Russie, the answer to number 12 is 387. Good for you Bloody Russell Rackham. You get a silver sticker star and a piece of Valentine's chocolate. Arg!"

It was mandatory that everyone got a Valentine but I didn't raise a ruckus when I got only one. Perhaps my name was unintentionally left off the list. I smiled through it all although inside I was brimming with suffering and torment. Disappointed and ready to nap away my pain, my little tears soaking my custom pillowcase, it was time to beat the piñata.

John Paul was the brute of our class, but I was chosen as the first to try my hand at the piñata. Blindfolded, I used the baseball bat to swing aimlessly at the papier-mâché Pound Puppies monstrosity hanging from the asbestos ceiling tiles. "I will now get revenge for the insult brought upon me this day," said I as my 4th-grade mind reeled. Taking my Valentine's Day feelings and frustrations out on the piñata, I spilt it open with a fury on the third swing. I was alive. Power surged through me. Cheers echoed in the hallways. I had gashed open the piñata like a true sportsman. Gone were the days when I struck out in Tee Ball. Now I could revel in the candy treats like I deserved.

I felt a rush of air. I heard a mob of gleeful youth dive. I felt them pushing me out of the way, my knees bending in unnatural ways. There is nothing more sickeningly grubby than a frisk of 4th graders scrambling for candy.

By the time I removed the blindfold and looked at the ground, all that was left was an unwrapped Tootsie Roll, a rubber band and the mangled head of Cooler the Pound Puppy piñata. I still hear the lips of my filthy peers smacking as they shoved the candy into their greasy, ungrateful mouths. Their scrum made me wince.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, "Russie," screamed my twin sister, smiling uncontrollably as she entered the classroom. She was overburdened with her Valentine shoebox overflowing with goodies and presents and electronics from all of her little boyfriends and pals. Her hair was mussed and she had cupcake mess smeared all over her face and a separate basket filled with other lavish gifties. I showed her my empty box and the rubber band and she felt sorry for me. She shared her loot with me, handing me a cupcake with sweet pink frosting.

We'd skip home singing and laughing. Thankfully Valentine's Day was over for another year.