Jon Rolston. Being Hilarious.

Everyone hates Valentine's Day.

Everyone. Admit it. It's the AT&T of holidays. The people who are happily and comfortably in love typically have nothing to prove, and are content to eat frozen pizza and watch DVR on Valentine's Day. These people (though they'll probably buy cards and a little extra booze) do not buy into the hype. They understand and abhor the materialism associated with this day. Even worse than the materialism, they understand that it's a day for embellishing one's love. Making up for shitty behavior and for being a terrible partner the other 364 days a year.

If balloons and ugly stuffed bears are enough to help you forgive your man for cheating on you/forgetting your birthday/insulting your mother to her face... then you should probably just have a nice quiet evening alone. In your garage. With the car running.

All the pathetic posers make themselves known on Valentine's Day: proposing, sending flowers to obscure locations, buying expensive dinners and highly advertised God-awful pieces of jewelry. For the record, there is nothing romantic about the simple pleasure of making other people jealous. Unless you're embracing that good old American dream; then everything is about making other people jealous. Good work.

While everyone is supposed to be celebrating their love, most people are stressed out and feel the pressure of the holiday. While out to eat, men hem and haw over buying a second drink since they've already spent a small fortune... and who knows if the broad plans on putting out anyway? And the women stress over the same issue. It's not "I'm really enjoying this pesto and your company". It's "I'm fat and now I'm going to have to make up for it later by ______"

I'm all for bartering, but think about it: how do prostitutes get paid? Good old fashioned dollars.. or crack, if that was going to be purchased with the dollars anyway. So why in hell do men expect women to put out because they bought them pink carnations and a singing card? If you did that to a sex worker, you'd get maced. Just sayin'. Now I know typical romantic relationships are not based on the principle of sex for money. HAHA. Okay. Right. But successful romantic relationships are about sharing, not one-upping. They're about being vulnerable and telling the truth. They're about laughing at stupid inside jokes and making sacrifices for the future well-being of the bond, not for the immediate satisfaction of Olive Garden breadsticks.

If you love someone, don't buy them an expensive box of chocolates they'll have to dig through to avoid the coconut ones. Wait until the day after Valentine's Day, fill your cart to your little heart's desire with clearance candy, and share it year round.

I'm a Superman.

Tonight, someone asked me a simple question, an obvious independent social experiment:

"Superman or Batman?"

Being Jessi, naturally I responded accordingly:

"Are you asking which I prefer, which I relate to easier, or... what exactly?"

"No, no. Don't think about it too much. Just answer. Select a superhero."

"Okay. Superman."

He held up his phone to show that he had typed in a message before I had responded: Superman. He had guessed my response.

I asked him to explain this riddle, and what implications it had for me as a superhero-picker. He told me that every time he meets someone new, he guesses which one they are more likely to pick. For women in particular, it has a lot to do with whether or not they are drawn to bad boys, or men with a dark side. (I am not, nor have I ever been one of these girls, but I do see this behavior occur in a hilarious percentage of women and am therefore lacking in sympathy when one of fourteen terrible things happens to them later.)

Before he explained the simplicity of the question and that his social experiment was a personal obsession, he asked me why I chose Superman. I didn't have to think hard about it. Superman was born Superman; Clark Kent, a regular human, is just Superman's alter ego. A huge part of Superman's story involves him being a baby and that is absolutely adorable. Superman loves Lois Lane, a career woman (!) who isn't blond, has journalistic prowess, and gives no fucks. Superman is cute and mysterious without being arrogant. Superman is fantastic.

Batman talks in a weird ass voice and has a bestie named Robin (also in tights). This is not a contest.

Bill agrees with me, moments before he dies from the five point palm exploding heart technique (you're welcome if you speak Spanish):

The Academy let me down.

I should have known better.

Known better than to get excited, crossing Oscar-nominated films off my 'SEEN IT!' list just because they were Oscar-nominated. I mean, have you seen Avatar? Have you seen Pocahontas? Have you seen Fern Gully? Right.

I was a ballerina. I loved Black Swan. Great movie. I even saw The Kids are All Right; Annette Bening should win. I stalk you using my the facebook (Justin Timberlake has not come over to suggest I drop the 'the' yet... so I'm still waiting); The Social Network was phenomenal. Despite my lack of affection for Helena, The King's Speech made my week. My dad has guns and watching Jeff Bridges do just about anything proves that men are capable of being inherently likable. I had to see what all this The Fighter chit chat was all about.

Big mistake. I knew I hated boxing movies, so why did I assume this one would be any different? Christian Bale is nominated for an Oscar for his performance, but I can only assume it's because his intense portrayal of the wildcard crackhead brother threw everyone else off during production. All the Americans who took a break from Glenn Beck to run out to the cinema to see this movie won't be pleased, but I wasn't floored by his performance. I assumed since it was based on a true story, there should be just that: a story. I kept waiting for a plot twist: he kills the girlfriend in a fit of jealous rage, he's diagnosed with HIV, he hosts a smackdown in prison...even a Million Dollar Baby ending would have been better than the predictable nonsense that ensued.

And sure, everybody acted their little tracksuits off. Marky Mark stared defeated into the distance wearing strategically placed butterfly bandages. Melissa Leo led the army of "skank"-haters with the power of a thousand Teen Mom grandmas. Christian Bale was scary as usual, though still not nearly as scary as Kevin Bacon. Even in Footloose. Unfortunately, the best risk-taking in The Fighter came from Amy Adams and her willingness to gain and display an ample, pasty beer belly.

What, may I ask, is everyone smoking? This movie was horrible. The Town was better than this, and not just because the trashy people were less disturbingly trashy. The Town had a plot. It had characters that you rooted for and didn't root for. The Town had nun masks and the potion-maker from Romeo and Juliet. AS A BAD GUY!

This cinematic experience was far from my favorite and even my fellow moviegoers were letting me down. For example, if you decide to go see a movie called The Fighter, that doesn't mean that you yourself need to smell like a fighter. I swear the man in front of me had just changed his own oil while eating handfuls of garlic before deciding to finally go and see that fightin' movie on 7:30 on a Wednesday. Come on, people. Let's show a little self respect. And stop clapping at movies. You aren't watching American Pie for the first time at age 13, and you aren't Mel Gibson at the screening of your own movie about Jesus.

I normally don't participate in this sort of Oscar prediction spat/self-indulgent behavior (ha!), but if Toy Story 3 doesn't win, I'm moving to Sweden. Preferably to star in a spin-off TV show as Lisbeth Salander. I will need to learn Swedish.