A Minute-by-Minute Guide to Single Survival, by Sarah Nicole Prickett.

7:00 a.m. Wake up. Alone. Hit snooze.

7:10 a.m. Wake up again. Still alone. Hit snooze.

7:20 a.m. Wake up again. Ask cat to make you coffee.

7:50 a.m. No coffee. What the hell, cat? Hope you have enough change for Starbucks.

8:00 a.m. Cry in the shower. That way, you won’t have to dry your tears separately. (It’s less depressing. Promise.)

8:30 a.m. You’re far too miserable to eat breakfast. Eat sixteen dark chocolate truffles instead.

8:31 a.m. Ignore instant fat feelings and put on your sexiest lingerie. Something black and lacy. What do you mean, but no one’s going to see it? Woman. It’s not even nine a.m. You have a whole fifteen hours to make bad decisions.

8:47 a.m. At Starbucks, flirt with construction workers, but just until they give you enough change for your venti soy latte. What? You’re not that desperate.

9:25 a.m. Shit, you’re totally late. Better make it fashionable…
This Sunday, February 10, Showdown Vintage is having a shopping party, so you can scoop up good finds from better days and look retro-sexy on V-Day. You may be unloved, but you’ll look totally lovable.

11:13 a.m. Scroll through your cellular for boys’ names that sound vaguely familiar. Contemplate sending a mass text: “Drinks tonight, on me? Or we could skip the drinks…”

Think better of it after remembering that half of them are nineteen-year-old guitar heroes you met at the Tiger Bar in the summer, and the other half now have girlfriends. You’re not that desperate.

11:58 a.m. Make unflattering, appropriately dickless voodoo doll of recent ex-boyfriend. (Don’t forget the extra stuffing for the beer gut.) Stick him through with pins. Light his left arm on fire. Draw little red dots around his mouth (for herpes, of course).

1:00 p.m. Lunchtime? Ugh. You’re entirely too wretched to eat lunch. Go shopping instead. Valentine’s Day is the most commercial of all holidays, and so? All the more opportunities to buy yourself something pretty and useless. Like a raspberry white chocolate torte.

3:13 p.m. Surprise! Someone loves you after all! A colossal bouquet of carnations arrives at the office with your name on the card. The receptionist and all your female coworkers crowd around, oohing and aahing and pouting in envy. You beam smugly and casually mention something about “the Swedish investment banker from last weekend”.

3:20 p.m. Call mom to thank her for the flowers.

5:45 p.m. On your way home from work, stop by the LCBO and pick up a bottle of pinot noir. Make that two. And one of those pocket-sized bottles of Goldschlager. “Big night in! The boyfriend’s making dinner… hope he doesn’t overcook the filet mignon! Ha! Ha!” The cashier gives you a polite half-smile. Bitch.

6:12 p.m. Dinner hour, and yet no dinner invites. No missed calls. No new texts.

Only one thing to do: call your service provider, heatedly demanding to know why your cell phone isn’t working. Settle for fifty per cent off your next bill.

7:29 p.m. Fuck dinner. You’re in the depths of despair, far too deep to eat dinner. Drink the entire bottle of pinot noir. Make that two.

8:11 p.m. Maybe a mass text isn’t the worst idea after all…

9:37 p.m. Oh shit. One of those nineteen-year-olds? Was your brother.

Your mom is totally going to regret sending those flowers.

9:55 p.m. Bad decision-making time! Turn off the Joy Division and turn up the lipstick. Call your friends and tell them to meet you for more wine and whine at the nearest pseudo-dive bar (wherever the hot scruffsters are plentiful and the service is fast).

And if you still need a shoulder to cry on, come join my pity party at Baby Huey ! I will be there with free cupcakes, kisses and advice.

xoxo Sarah Nicole.