dear february,

I sort of hate you. And I don’t even know why. You do contain the birthday of my firstchild, who is a wonder. And I’ve never minded Valentine’s. Or Leap Year. Or the Winter Olympics when they come around. I like a good snow, when it happens. I even like bare trees. I adore bare trees, and their silhouette against the sky. I loved our Chi-trip last February, and all the magic contained therein. Prophetic hot chocolate and overpriced coffee with grass undertones at the JHTower.

Things I don’t like? Sickness. I’ve hit a wall with patience and patientcare. Not to mention my own horrifying run-in with The Virus. I. Am. Done.

But beyond specificities, I find you to be a Great Big Blob of Malaise. You are the purgatory between winter and spring, the no-man’s land between striped sweaters and pastel parkas. You make me paranoid and defeated about Lots of Things. Like my dog, and the pigs next door. Whom I should probably meet before I judge. It’s just that they were tiny and cute and ran away when I saw them last week, and now they’re big and boisterous and oink at me when I walk by. Probably I should oink back. Okay I won’t blame the pigs. Even if they’re starting to smell already. But what about the friggin’ mouse you sent to my kitchen today? That. Is unacceptable. I have no words. My overactive imagination and the rat infestation film I saw in third grade will not abide.

Okay maybe I’m just tired. And annoyed. I did grow up with various mice issues after all. But then we had a cat. And now I’m allergic to cats. So I can’t get a cat.

I really hate you February. Maybe it doesn’t make any sense but it’s all your fault. I’m pretty sure m has some words for you too.

no love. no soup.

penelope