As capitalism mows through Valentine’s Day and I find myself (happily, dare I say cheerily?) single again, I’m thinking about all the relationships I’m mourning. I offer up a complete list:

Apple Music: 

As my burner account, Apple Music was where I could stream the most noxious of untalented, deeply problematic artists. That is, until my dad canceled the family plan and callously informed me through a group chat. Now I’m left with Spotify and the hefty responsibility of performing good taste for the crowd of seven that follow me on Airbuds. Sorry about all the old 5 Seconds of Summer. 

The baristas at Jones: 

Objectively the hottest group of milk frothing twentysomethings that have ever graced South Pas. But alas, the pastry supplier switch and the lack of Wi-Fi mean our one-sided relationship where I overtip and they don’t sprinkle cinnamon on my chai has ended.

Literacy: 

For reasons I can’t fully articulate, I’m embracing my “illiteracy era,” which largely consists of me joking about illiteracy and not doing my Ethics reading. Call it a byproduct of overplaying 100 Gecs’ “Dumbest Girl Alive” or simply a result of reading Ancient White Man Philosophy™ too many times, but either way, I’m letting go of my relationship with being a literate soul. 

The many girls I have lied about my music knowledge to: 

I don’t know a single thing about finger picking. Or palm muting. I have no idea what a fret is. I don’t even know how to spell “fret,” as evidenced by when I tried to spell it like the French linen brand. Unlike my musically gifted friends who actually play instruments and are good at them, I have eight years of piano and no discernable sense of rhythm under my belt, which would be fine, except apparently whenever I meet any girl I deem attractive, I stammer out something about music that makes it SOUND like I know what I’m talking about. This February, I’m finally accepting that I do not know anything about anything, and I’m resolving to shut my damn mouth. 

Cynicism: 

In an astonishing turn of spiritual events, I have lost touch with my cynic self. It’s probably because like any other gay person, I got casually sucked into astrology and other star/moon/tides BS and now earnestly try to do things like talk to my ancestors. None of which is conducive to the leery-skeptic persona I spent most of freshman year furiously cultivating for a deeply pretentious future at a beatific liberal arts college. Cynic Sylvie was a time and I’ll miss her and her witticisms greatly.