You know them. You’ve seen them, talked to them, had the darkest corners of your lonely existence interrupted by the intrusive glare of their emanating love rays. You pass them in Ho Plaza, praying that their heavy-handed PDA is only the first staged scene of a sexual health demonstration. Their first language is couple talk, but they’re also fluent in condescension. They have little-to-no sarcasm perception, which turns out to be quite handy.

They are the human manifestation of Valentines Day, and you can’t help but hate them.