Ah, Cupid. Our favorite Greek god of erotic love, desire, and affection. With Valentine’s Day (Or for us single ladies, Galentine’s Day – thank you, Leslie Knope!) quickly approaching,  we at The Gabbler thought it appropriate to interview Cupid on modern love, online dating, and his perfect V-Day date. Note to readers: Beware of Cupid’s stray arrows. We weren’t so lucky.

The Gabbler: Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Cupid! I know it’s a little early for Valentine’s Day, but at the rate CVS is going, Valentine’s Day falls on January 2^nd these days, anyway.

Cupid: I couldn’t agree more. It’s given me a lot of anxiety. Much less time to sharpen my arrows. Why can’t humans just live in the moment, instead of always pushing for what’s next?

TG: Sorry, man. To err is human, right? We’re not perfect deities like you.

C: Like I should be getting royalties on quite a few Hallmark commercials, for one. Who can I talk to about that? But besides that? I mean the concept behind it is sweet, and it’s nice to have a holiday to celebrate romantic and erotic love, but I think it’s a classic case of materialism and media hype ruining a perfectly great tradition. God, I think this string is loose on my bow. Can you pass me one of my arrows?

TG: (Slumps over into love spell, then slowly opens her eyes.) I, uh, never thought about that. Yeah, she’d be a pretty shitty mom, then. But wait, I thought you were like one of those “primordial gods” – who basically just popped out of nowhere, right? Did I ever tell you your eyes are like warm pools of amber?

C: No, you didn’t. And that depends on whether you’re reading the Greek version or the Roman version. I still think of Aphrodite/Venus as my mom.

TG: Well, they are. I just can’t stop staring into your eyes. I have this sudden urge to strip totally naked and swim in them.

C: Let’s, er, hold off on that for now, please. Damn, I need to get better about my aim!

TG: (Giggles, and blinks repeatedly.) So Cupid, how do you define modern love?

TG: No, like actual modern love. As in love in modern times. Do you really believe in love at first sight? Because I think I do now.

C: It’s usually lust at first sight, not love. It’ll pass.

TG: Lust, love. You need lust for love. Let’s make love. What do you say?

C: Er, back to your question: I find love in the modern era to be complicated. And it’s lost a lot of its mystery. A lot of that I blame on social media and cell phones. Before those things, there was time between seeing or hearing from each other that allowed for anticipation and longing. Now, it’s so instant. Plus, there were a lot more steamy affairs. Now everyone tweets pictures of their dicks, and people tend to find out.

TG: That’s just Anthony Weiner. Most people are smart enough to use Snapchat nowadays. How are things with Psyche, by the way? Is that still going on? Or are you single?

C: Oh yeah, we’re great. Very much a couple. I’m very much taken. I finally admitted that refusing to turn the lights on was a manifestation of my own insecurity, and we got over that initial hiccup. Zeus made her immortal, and it’s all good. We even have a little baby goddess, Hedone.

TG: Congrats. (Sighs deeply.) I already knew that, though. I follow you on Instagram, and you post like a million baby pics a day.

TG: God, you’re adorable. What a loving father. There’s nothing sexier than a man who’s good with kids.

C: Let’s talk about something else, please.

TG: Okay, okay. So tell me about OkCupid. What made you decide to invest in online dating?

TG: You know, if we were on Tinder right now, I’d be the nearest warm body.

C: But we aren’t, are we?

TG: I mean, I could log on right now…

C: We’re in the middle of an interview. That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?

TG: Okay, okay. Be coy about it. I like coy. So what’s your idea of a perfect Valentine’s Day date?

TG: I love you.

C: Listen, you don’t! There was a bit of a mix up with my arrow; my bowstring was loose, and a stray one sort of hit you in the noggin. I was the first thing you saw. You don’t love me. NOW SNAP OUT OF IT!

TG: But I’d do anything for you. I want you to have me in this interview chair, right here, right now. (Stands up and starts to walk over to him.)

C: Oh, look at that! Emergency call. Jay-Z and Beyonce just had a tiff, and he needs me to shoot an arrow or two. I’ve got to go. You don’t want to be responsible for breaking them up, do you?

TG: (Sighs.) No, they were too cute at the Grammys.

C: Exactly. You have to let me go. As in, physically unhand me, please!

 TG: Oh. Sorry.

C: (Flies away.)

TG: WAIT! BUT I LOVE YOU! WILL YOU BE MY VALENTINE?

The following essay was sent into the New York Times a few weeks ago to be considered for one of their Modern Love columns; a section devoted to submissions of contemporary love stories in our confused, often alienating modern society. The essay was, unfortunately, rejected.

Note: Names and places have been changed to protect people’s identities. 

My life seems divided into two parts. There was life before David friend-requested me on Facebook, and life afterwards.

I can remember watching the spinning dial whirring against the deep blue of the homepage as I hit “Enter.” I still get that quivering twist of anticipation in my stomach, every time I log in.

The page loaded, and I saw it: the small, delicate shock of red that encompassed a lone “1” next to the Friends icon. I immediately navigated away from my News Feed and clicked.

There it was, a virtual outstretched hand, signifying his display of vulnerability and sheer interest and fiery passion: a friend request from one David Graham.

He told me later he didn’t even know my name; he’d only seen me once at the gym a few blocks away from my apartment. I smiled at him before I realized he was probably smiling at the blond in the lululemons.

But like a postmodern knight on horseback in pursuit of his damsel, he took to Facebook in the hopes of tracking me down.

He’d checked to see if I’d Liked the local gym’s Facebook page. From there, he scoured and scrolled through tens, maybe even dozens of thumbnail-sized profile pictures, until he happened upon my face – then an Instagrammed snapshot of me, close up, my Ray Bans glinting against the setting crimson sun. At least, that’s what he told me. He remembered every profile picture I’ve ever posted.

I took a deep breath, and accepted.

In only minutes, he’d privately messaged me: “Hey, what’s up?”

What complexity, what bubbling subliminal metatextuality lay within these simple words? I knew I too had to play coy, to keep my turbulent emotions in check: “Not much. U?”

(I had debated spelling “you” as “Y-O-U” for nearly three minutes, but ultimately deemed that my compulsion may read to him as tired and old-fashioned. What modern, exciting, intelligent, cultured woman has the time to spell out “you” these days?)

His answer arrived quickly, and I knew instantly that my word choice had also captured his own thoughts: “Not much.”

We’d used the same words to describe our respective states in the present moment. We were one being, one entity.

From there, our messages continued with fervor. He Liked my every status, and I his. He never forgot to comment on a single photo, and not a day went by that he didn’t dedicate his Spotify selection to me.

But this, this was only the glorious beginning, like a delicate budding rose in spring. Four days later, that rose bloomed fully, in the form of a Relationship Request on Facebook.

Of course, I accepted, and from then on, we were an “us.” (Literally, we had an “us” page – Facebook does that now!) It documented every emoticon, every shared link to his Tumblr, and every last check in.

Every night, I’d click through our “us” page. I’d imagine myself as an outsider, peering in through pale, opaque curtains to get a glimpse – just one, fleeting glimpse — of what it’s like to be in love.

But then, jealousy reared it’s ugly, gnarled head. I changed my new profile picture to a photo of me and my cousin, an attractive young man named Tom who was home on leave from the Marines. Tom, naturally, Liked the photo, furthering David’s belief that my betrayal was not only deliberate, it was public.

Before I had a chance to explain, or to even create a caption for the photo, David had posted a new mobile upload straight to Facebook: him, at a bar, kissing another woman. The image was even filtered with Instagram’s golden light, and I knew then that it was over.

I cried, I screamed, I swore into the blackness of the night that I’d never love again. I scrolled again through the “us” page, tormenting myself by continuing to Like his statuses reporting on the color of his sandwich meat.

The rose wilted; the petals fell to the cold, hard floor. Facebook informed me that he was no longer In a Relationship with me.

Support poured in from the comments box as Facebook made its public pronouncement of our end. For the first time, I grew angry at Facebook. This public shame and pity seemed more than my withered soul could endure. In my state of crippled agony, I found some small solace in Celine Dion on Spotify.

Months passed.

Then, one spring day, as the pale grey rain misted on the sidewalk, I received a notification on my iPhone: another friend request.

It was someone new. I’d never seen or spoken him before. He had green eyes, a kind smile, and three mutual friends on Facebook. As I outstretched my finger to hit “Accept,” I paused. Could I do this again? Could I truly friend another?

Perhaps, I thought to myself, I should take things a bit slower this time.

The next day, I connected with him on LinkedIn.