Given the world's soaring population, no doubt Cupid is flying in a state of general satisfaction this Valentine's Day, congratulating himself on a job well done. He probably spent the rest of the afternoon flitting through the city streets, shooting pigeons off of power lines. Give a kid a bow and arrow...

I don't know about those with, shall we say, more passionate hearts, but the three times in my life I've legitimately been smitten, I don't think I would compare it to an arrow-shot. Love has never been a sudden thing for me. Or even obsession, its tenacious but less-healthy counterpart.

Love, for me, has always come on as something of a virus. It starts creeping up on you, you don't really detect it. You go about your daily business, while the virus works itself deeper into your cells, giving you only a general sense of something being outta balance. When it finally manifests itself in the first tiny sneeze, though, that's it for you. You're in for a miserable week in bed.

In the virus analogy, specifically.

To sum up -- Cupid is an unfit metaphor for the spirit of romance, and should be replaced, immediately, with an anthropomorphic plague germ. Love is... virulent microscopic agents of pestilence. That'll up the T-shirt sales.

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