The problem with the mundane repetitiveness of a cliche is often not that it is obvious, but rather that it is rarely true.

One in the hand is seldom worth two in the bush. Life is, in fact, perfectly fair. And, there are not plenty more fish in the sea.

Needless to say, my casual disapproval of cliche is in no way an apology for any previous transgressions, and is also not going to prevent me from using them again. Now, having got the disclaimer out of the way, on to business.

Although we’re drifting towards the end of the most romantic week of the year, I feel I’d be going against the spirit of absurdly repetitive student column writing if I didn’t jump on the “complain about Valentine’s Day” bandwagon.

On the other hand, complaining about Valentine’s Day is easy. It’s a cheap thrill with so many open targets that even the vice-president would have trouble missing.

No, I think we should aim a little higher than Hallmark or roses or hand-holding or even a la carte a cappella. Why bother with details when we can take a swipe at the rotting carcass of young(ish) love itself?

As you may have gathered from your weekly perusals of my work (I live in hope), it’s hard to date in graduate school.

The over-powering (and constant) need to work is the most obvious stumbling block for any would be Casanova. However, let us not forgot the damping of ardor by the dreary misery of Escondido Village and its environs. Or for that matter, the quenching effects of groups of stray electrical engineers.

On top of all of this, one also has to overcome the lack of esteem (both self and otherwise) that seems to be an essential part of the Stanford graduate school experience.

Even if you manage to get past all of the above, you’re still left with a troublesome number problem. The on-campus male/female ratio is something like 65% to 35%, a number that gets even worse when you remove the somewhat more balanced professional schools from the mix (which we do since they don’t really speak to the rest of us).

All of this brings us neatly (well, sort of anyway) back to the noble art of cliche. When lamenting the fact that (another) Valentine’s Day was spent in the company of a fascinating paper on the “Features of de Sitter Vacua in M-Theory” it’s easy to fall into the trap of cautious optimism.

After all, you’re smart, witty and you have all your teeth, of course there’s someone out there for you. There are, after all, plenty of fish in the proverbial sea.

The problem is, though, that all the fish have either been dynamited out of the water or killed off by mercury poisoning. And thus the sea itself is a sad and lonely place bereft of even a Sharky or a George.

The fish/sea meme is also brought out whenever someone suffers the fizzle-out of an abortive romance, supposedly as reassurance that all is not lost. Don’t kid yourself; all is lost.

Well, that is, I suppose, not exactly true. It’s not so much that all is lost, but rather that “all” are mostly either very far away or not that interested.

Actually the most striking evidence for the empty sea phenomenon is the infrequency of dating. If your lab mate’s first attempt at romance in six months has gone south, it’s not that likely that another will present itself anytime soon.

Personally I don’t see any of this as a great problem. While this is partly because my devastating good looks and indescribable charm make me irresistible, I also have to confess that I quite enjoy hanging out in a barren, soulless desert.

You see, although graduate school may be less than bubbling with passion, the overpowering certainty of failure is far less depressing when you have the perfect excuse at hand.

Two competitions for you this week, dear reader. Email navins@stanford.edu if you a) figured out the Sharky and George reference or b) have counted the number of cliches used above. Prizes galore are on offer.