The summer before I went to college, I started dating this guy—we'll call him Brad, because that is his name. Brad played soccer for my high school's biggest rival. I forget how I met him.

We dated that entire summer, which at 17 years old feels like an eternity. Our routine was simple: once I finished up at my summer job, I would usually see Brad. We'd go cliff jumping, or watch the World Cup games, or sit around his house, smoke pot and make out. Sometimes at night we'd go drink beer in a pick-up truck in an empty parking lot up by a factory in his town. Once we jumped a fence to a medical supply place and stole a tank of nitrous. He called me "kid" a lot, which I somehow found endearing. One time we went cliff jumping at night and afterwards fell asleep in the woods. I woke up with 1,000 mosquito bites.

That September, I went off to college. We hadn't discussed our plans, but Brad was a year younger than me and would only be two hours away. We'd figure it out. I arrived on campus, and my roommate, who I hadn't met yet, was a girl named Kelly, who happened to be from Brad's town. I looked over at the wall, where she had hung up some photos on a corkboard, and there was Brad, next to some cute girl. At prom, maybe.

"You know my boyfriend Brad?!" I asked.

"Brad is my best friend Christina's boyfriend!" she answered.

Valentine's Day is bullshit, and if some asshole gave me a cockroach I would name it BRAD, before dumping him. What would you name your cockroach?