January 1, 2016 … A new year. A fresh start. This is going to be my year. I can feel it!

New Year’s Eve was actually fun this year, probably because I decided not to plan anything or spend any money. My only expectation was that I’d go to sleep at some point, so anything above that would qualify as fun. And it worked! I wound up spontaneously meeting some friends at a house party and we had a great time. But I woke up this morning feeling mildly hungover, which is weird, because I gave up drinking eight years ago. Maybe I’ve caught something from one of the strangers who insisted on kissing me as the clock struck midnight. I usually avoid that by hiding in the bathroom for the countdown, but the party I was at had port-o-potties.

Despite feeling physically crappy, I do feel good about my two New Year’s Resolutions. I made one because I knew I could stick with it for a year, which would make it 363 days more successful than any other New Year’s Resolution I’ve made. New Year’s Resolution number one? I gave up my boyfriend. Okay, truthfully, I broke up with Mike in early December but never found exactly the right moment to tell him it was over and he wound up beating me to the punch. After he dumped me I tried to reconcile with him so I could break up with him a week later, thus giving me the final word. But in a moment of maturity, I resolved that in honor of the New Year, I would stop.

I’m excited to be single again, mostly because I get to check out all the new dating apps that have popped up since Mike and I got together. I matched with him on Tinder and met him in person, totally by coincidence, the very same day. I’d promised myself I was only on Tinder to find stand-up material, but I made an exception because I thought it must be a sign from the universe that we were meant to be together. If it was, the universe must hate me.

Before that relationship, I was only aware of a few dating apps: Tinder, PlentyOfFish and JDate. I never gave POF or JDate a chance, mostly because I don’t like fish and I’m not Jewish. I was tempted to try JDate, but I found the name of the app irritating. Maybe if it was called “Jew Complete Me.”

New Year’s Resolution number two? To give up having high expectations about anything. If I expect little in every aspect of my life, then anything good that happens will seem even better. More importantly, I’ll never be disappointed! Maybe I’m the next great philosopher. Time to make a meme.

January 2 … Today I had most of the day off, so I went to the grocery store to stock up on food.

But as soon as I walked into Ralph’s, I was seeing red, literally and figuratively. They were already pushing Valentine’s Day crap. God, I love a bad pun/double entendre. New Year’s Eve just ended, and already Valentine’s Day is being jammed down my throat. I found myself standing in the aisle amidst the tsunami of red and pink and candy hearts and boxes of chocolates, wishing there was another holiday that grocery stores could cash in on before Valentine’s Day. That way, we wouldn’t be forced to spend the six weeks after New Years being constantly reminded of Valentine’s Day, which is kind of the Donald Trump of holidays: It’s always in your face, it’s annoying as hell and anyone with a brain hates it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day” is an oxymoron, and I don’t say that because I’ve never had a happy Valentine’s Day. I don’t think anyone has. I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that the abbreviation of Valentine’s Day, “V.D.,” is also the abbreviation of “venereal disease.” There’s probably a high incidence of V.D. infection on V.D. There are two kinds of people in the world: people like me who hate Valentine’s Day, and people who think they love Valentine’s Day.

The second group of people seem to be comprised mostly of girls who inevitably end their Valentine’s Day celebration in tears. These are the girls who have been dreaming of their wedding since they were born, and a successful Valentine’s Day is an important milestone on their journey to that day. Sure, they may have hated Valentine’s Day last year, but that’s because they were single. Duh. In theory, Valentine’s Day is the most romantic day of the year, but in reality Valentine’s Day is a recipe for disaster. I don’t think that anyone really knows or cares about the historical significance of the day, we just know that it’s supposed to be the single most important day of the year for couples.

The events planned and gifts exchanged on Valentine’s Day are supposed to represent how much two people love each other. What could possibly go wrong?

No matter how much two people love each other, they’re bound to have their own separate, and generally high expectations for what Valentine’s Day will bring. And, since most of us aren’t psychic, there’s no way one partner can know what the other is expecting. In most couples, the guy plans the bulk of the Valentine’s Day activities with little or sometimes no input from the girl, if it’s a surprise. The girl can use the time she would have spent planning fantasizing about what will unfold. She might think to herself, “Will he take me to dinner? Whisk me off for a surprise getaway?”

In longer relationships, she may think a proposal is on the way. She’ll likely chat to her friends who are also in relationships about what they think their guys are planning, which may raise the bar even more. If Karen’s friend Mary has been dating Mark for four months and he’s taking her to Maestro’s, Karen’s boyfriend Ryan now has to match Maestro’s and raise a room at the Four Seasons in order to seem adequate. The guy, whether he actually likes Valentine’s Day or not, will have his own set of expectations. Depending on how much money, time and effort he puts into it, he’s going to expect some level of gratitude.

Maybe he’ll settle for a genuine thank you, but some guys think if they cough up the big bucks they’re getting something more. Like anal. To make matters worse, if your date involves going to a restaurant or virtually any public place, you’re going to be surrounded by other couples celebrating the same holiday in the same fashion. Maybe your date’s having a grand old time until she notices the girl at the next table being handed a Tiffany box by her date. Suddenly, she realizes what she’s missing out on. Maybe the couple next to you is having more fun, which instantly makes you wonder whether there’s someone else out there who you could be having that much fun with. The other couples you encounter may be better dressed, better looking, more flirtatious, taller, thinner, smaller. It doesn’t matter. They’re going to be different, and that means chances are that one or both of you will somehow be comparing yourselves and/or your date to see how they or you measure up.

You just unwittingly entered a romance competition that no one wins. The Super Bowl of sweethearts everywhere. The men are all secretly wishing that none of the other men drop a knee, because the second one breaks out a ring box, all the other V.D. dates are going to seem worse, comparatively. Inadvertently, he’ll ruin all the other Valentine’s Day dates and take home the championship ring. To add insult to injury, these days you’re not only able to compare your date with the others in your peripheral vision, you can compare it to the whole world’s Valentine’s Days on social media. Now you’re not just competing to see who can have the best date with the other 14 couples at the restaurant, you’re competing with everyone in the world.

All that anxiety can cause one or both parties to drink too much, which causes its own set of problems. The girl may be more than willing to express her gratitude, but it won’t matter if the little guy doesn’t want to cooperate. And chances are the window of opportunity will be shut by the time he does — especially for anal. That window was probably only open a crack to begin with.

January 6 … I was sitting in my living room working on the computer this morning when my doorbell rang. There was a delivery man at the door holding the most beautiful floral arrangement I’ve ever seen. I got excited, thinking perhaps it was from Mike because he desperately wanted me back or, even better, I had a new secret admirer! The delivery guy said, “Sign on the line below your name,” and gestured to a box that read “Julia Hernandez.”

I stared at the form for a minute, trying to figure out how the fuck they spelled my name so wrong. The flowers were addressed to Unit 502, which is indeed my apartment number, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out a way that “Camilla Cleese” could have been misinterpreted as “Julia Hernandez.” Probably because of my hesitation, the delivery guy pulled the form away and took a second look at it.

“Oh,” he said. “They aren’t for you.”

I was pissed. Was it that inconceivable that somebody would send me flowers? Just before I opened my mouth, I realized he probably meant, “You’re not Julia Hernandez,” as in, “That doesn’t sound like a white girl name.” I almost asked why I couldn’t be Julia Hernandez. Is it that inconceivable that I’m of Latin descent? Even an eighth? Racist.

I kept my mouth shut, because he was already on the phone talking to Julia, who was at home in Unit 503. I should have changed the number in the “Recipient’s Phone Number” box when I had the chance. Oh well. The delivery guy said he was sorry and walked the flowers down the hall. Bye bye, flowers. Bye bye, good mood.

What had been until then a great morning, was ruined. Why? Because I didn’t know that I wanted flowers, and now I need flowers! I can’t live without fucking flowers! But because those flowers were delivered, waved in front of my face making me think that somebody loved me, and then snatched away to be enjoyed by my prettier neighbor, I now have a void that desperately needs to be filled. By flowers. Flowers sent by a man. So not only am I miserable because I don’t have flowers, I need somebody to buy me flowers, so now I’m miserable because I need a boyfriend. Julia is ruining my life. I hope she’s a good person and will let her boyfriend know she lives in Unit 503 and not 502 so this doesn’t happen again.

January 15 … Jake, a guy I met on Bumble, asked me to lunch on Thursday. That’s three days away. I don’t want to confirm because I’m not sure what I think of him or if I’ll be in the right mood for a date when Thursday rolls around. Jesus. Am I so afraid of commitment that I can’t commit to lunch plans — or anything, really? Maybe because the word “committed” is usually followed by the words “a crime” or “to a mental institution.” That, and I might just be a tad selfish. Or very selfish. I should really work on that.

I agreed to lunch but warned him I’m waiting for confirmation of a meeting that’s being scheduled by my agent (true) and there’s a teeny tiny chance it might be scheduled for Thursday lunch (not true). I’m a terrible liar. I don’t even bother trying to lie in person, because my nostrils flare and it’s just plain embarrassing. Lying by text should be easier, but the guilt eats away at me, so whenever possible, I tell the truth. Or at least the “Based on a true story” version.

January 17 … Today as I was running out the door in an upbeat mood, I almost tripped over a floral arrangement sitting on my doorstep. Enough time had passed for me to forget about the last flower delivery, so it wasn’t until I read the card that I realized the flowers weren’t for me. To add insult to injury, this time I was forced to deliver the flowers myself and then say goodbye to them. When I got to Julia’s door, in a moment of thoughtless impulse, I knocked. I regretted it immediately, but I took a deep breath and tried to think of something to say if she answered. I’d kill her with kindness — or smash the vase over her head — and ask her sweetly to let her boyfriend know she lives in Unit 503 and not Unit fucking 502. I could hear her footsteps get louder as she approached the door. I held my breath expecting it to open, but nothing happened. I knocked again. Nothing. A moment later I heard her walk away. Seriously?

I put the flowers down in front of her door and wondered if my impulse to soccer kick the vase was a good one. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, mostly because I’m sure when she looked through the peephole she saw enough to pick me out of a lineup. Besides, I’m not the kind of person who kicks over a vase of flowers, am I?

January 18 … Go me! I actually went on that date with Jake! I had an excuse, and I didn’t even use it. Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. He’s from the south, which I like, and his impeccable manners are adorable. I’ve been living in Los Angeles for about 10 years now, and I although I don’t think chivalry is dead, it’s definitely in a coma. But I’m okay with that. I feel like some forms of chivalry are outdated. For example, Jake insisted on picking me up, which feels less like chivalry and more, I don’t know, kidnappy. I like to drive myself to my dates, because I like having a ready-to-go escape pod if I need to bounce. But I decide to let Jake have his way, because he’s way too good-looking to be an axe murderer.

When he pulled up, he got out of the car and walked around to open the passenger side door. It seemed odd that he wanted to be a passenger in his own car, but I don’t drink anymore, so I climbed into the driver’s seat. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I thought that was his way of asking me to drive, which he found hilarious. Apparently, that is what “politeness” looks like, although I don’t really understand why I would need him to open my car door. It’s not like I’m missing both my arms. Whatever.

At the restaurant, more manners. He held doors and said, “Ladies first,” in his cute southern accent. I’m on board with the whole “women and children first” thing. Not that I give a fuck about the “kids” part. I don’t. I just figure if I’m ever on a sinking ship, a kid would take up less room in a lifeboat. And if it came down to it, I‘d have no problem eating one. But only if it was organic, free-range and humanely raised — like, had a good life before I ate it.

The date was lovely right up until he said he was a Republican. And owned a gun. Check please, I thought. But I stuck dinner out because he was nice, polite and fun to look at. Plus I figured he might have said gun with him.

January 24 … While I was making my third cup of coffee this morning, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, there was nobody there, just another floral arrangement. It was less impressive than the previous ones, which made me smile. Things must not be going well for Julia and her boyfriend. As I carried the flowers down the hallway, I peeked at the card. It read “We love you! Dad and Jen.” I put the flowers down in front of her door, thinking what a crazy coincidence it was that her Dad was also married to a woman named Jen. I walked back into my apartment and resumed making my coffee, irritated by the fact that already my phone had been dinging non-stop with text message alerts. This early? Did someone die? Even worse. Today’s my birthday. I’m 32 and already my memory is going. Maybe I have dementia. I figured I should check WebMD to be safe, so I sat down at my laptop.

Fuck! Those flowers were meant for me! I found myself wishing that Julia had seen the flowers, but had her hands full, and that I’d grab them from her doorstep before she had the chance. She’d get a taste of her own medicine, see how it feels to be teased like that. I hope she’s jealous! Although my flowers probably weren’t good enough for Julia. She strikes me as a total flower snob. She probably only likes flowers that are organically grown, gluten-free and watered with the tears of small children. On the bright side, I wasn’t expecting flowers, so they were a lovely surprise! Plus, it’s my birthday, which means I can get out of shit I don’t feel like doing.

I’m not really a big fan of birthdays. I loved them up until I turned 21, seven times. My first 21^st birthday was when I got my first fake ID at age 17. It seemed like a good age to stick with, so I stayed that age till my friends matured enough to not black out at my birthdays anymore, therefore remembering how old I actually turned. But with age I’ve learned to love people’s imperfections as well as their strengths and be wary of falling in love with the idea of someone rather than their reality. I’m no longer looking for the perfect guy to fall in fairy tale love with, nor do I believe there’s anyone who can “complete me.” I’m striving to be complete and happy by myself and hope one day I’ll get the added bonus of having someone in my life permanently who I enjoy more than anyone else, someone who challenges me, and I, them, to become a better person.

If I don’t find that special person it’s not the end of the world. I believe I’ll lead a fulfilling and successful life regardless. I’ll just fill the void the old-fashioned way — with cats.

January 28 … I got home at about 2:30 a.m. after driving round-trip to San Diego to do a stand-up set, and at my front door sat two dozen red roses. They had been delivered in a nice vase, with a card, but it appeared someone had taken a disliking to them. The flowers lay on the dirty floor surrounded by water, decorative stones and shattered glass. I was exhausted and beyond frustrated. Who does that? Who kicks over a vase of red roses that’s just sitting in front of someone’s door, not bothering anyone? There could only be one explanation: Julia. She must have seen that I had flowers and assumed they were for me this time, and was like, “Fuck that!” I found myself fantasizing that she was tipsy when she’d done it, and the kick had caused her to slip in her stilettos and fall hard on the floor in front of at least four people, including her boyfriend.

I then immediately felt guilty and beat myself up for having such a horrible thought and decided I’d be the bigger person. Perhaps it was an accident and she had nothing to do with it. I read the card to confirm that the flowers were meant for Julia, which they were. It said, “Julia, You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I love you. Brian” Vomit.

It probably wouldn’t have bothered me if she wasn’t prettier than me, but whatever. He’s clearly lying. There’s no way she’s prettier than Adriana Lima or Gisele, so I shouldn’t be jealous, right? I mean, I wouldn’t want to date a guy who’s a liar anyway. I pulled myself together, put on some rubber gloves and got to work cleaning up the water and broken glass. I put the roses and decorative stones in one of my own vases, added the flower food and some fresh water and sat down to write Julia an apologetic note explaining what had happened and asking her to please leave the vase in front of my door when she was done with it.

As a postscript, I wrote, “Please, could you let your boyfriend know that you live in 503 and not 502? He’s making my boyfriend look bad.” Smiley face. She does not need to know I don’t have a boyfriend. I mean, she’s already winning. Besides, it sounds better than, “Could you please let your boyfriend know that you live in apartment 503 and not apartment 502? Because although I’m really happy being single, I don’t need it rubbed in my fucking face, you bitch!“ and I just can’t seem to find a happy medium.

I left the flowers and my note at her door, patting myself on the back for doing the right thing. For an instant I was tempted to kick the flowers over, but I restrained myself when I remembered that they were now in my vase. I collapsed into bed, noting I was only going to get four hours of sleep because of her, which means I must be a really good person. Right?

February 13 … Still no vase. There’s absolutely no way those flowers are still alive. They would have died at least a week ago. If Julia hasn’t returned my vase by now, she clearly has no intention of ever returning it, much less saying, “Thank you.” I’m sure it’s stashed away safely in her cupboard, waiting for the next batch of flowers she’ll be sent to enjoy. I’ve tried to be a good person and give her the benefit of the doubt, but now I’m pissed. She’s taken more from me than just flowers and a vase. She’s stolen my happiness and rubbed my singledom in my face. So the next time flowers intended for her arrive at my apartment mistakenly, I’m going to be prepared. I’ve typed up a little note just like the cards that came with her other flowers. This is what it says: Dear Julia, For the following reasons, I can’t see you anymore: 1. Your attitude stinks. 2. Your vagina also stinks. 3. Since we first started dating you’ve gained weight. I didn’t want to say anything, but I thought you’d want me to be honest. 4. I met a girl who’s prettier, kinder, funnier, more awesome, and all-around just way better than you in every possible way. By total coincidence, she lives in Unit 502. I just didn’t want you to think any flowers sitting in front of her door were meant for you and accidentally take them. Go fuck yourself! Brian

I hope he sends more flowers soon.