Dear January, F*#% You

Dear January,

I called every company that makes calendars, and I've asked them to take you off them all.  I thought I could never meet someone more horrible than Nicholas Cage in another movie about finding treasure, but I was wrong.

I found you.  Taking a dump on me.  In front of everyone.

Five.  Does that number mean anything to you?  It should.  It's the amount of times I've either been sick or physically injured from your malice and utter slips of bastardness.  I thought one bacterial infection would be enough to test me for a month.  I'd have even said you'd made me stronger for attempting to kick my ass, which clearly, is way stronger than your weak game.  But three?  Seriously?  You must be German or something with this whole Blitzkrieg attack on my body.  All I wanted was to greet the new year with a Gutentag or however my ancestors used to say it, but no.  You had other plans.  Plans like making me trip, sprain my ankle, overstretch my calf muscle, and make a fool of myself in front of the entire soccer team.  Plans like giving me pinkeye after everyone else on the island already had it.  Plans like bruising my tailbone to the point where I can barely sit.  Plans of, on top of the tailbone, starting an infection that robs me of any life or pursuit of happiness I might have achieved.

But that wasn't enough for you, was it?

To fulfill your plan of making my life as boring as possible, you also made my co-teacher sick enough to have to stay home for two weeks.  School, when I was well enough to attend, was a battle of finding the place where I would be least wasting my time.  School became two classrooms full of fifty students each, running around and screaming.  School, my job and reason for being here, slowly faded away into your hands.  Your damp clammy hands veining with discontent. 

You also stole my delight to run by messing up my ankle; I have not run in over a month because you.  Exercise as I knew it changed from 3 mile runs to pitiful upper body workouts.

But again, o' January, you became the Mic Jagger of months.  Satisfaction was just out of your little prick's reach.

You lied to me, tricked me into believing I could run in the Microgames.  You made the $60 track shoes I bought useless.  You, you bastard, took away the one thing I was looking forward to in July: becoming a "professional" athlete.

I must say; you hit me where it hurt the most.

Nonetheless, your attempts have all  been failures.  I have picked myself up off the ground, gotten back up, and prayed to see the day when your face drops from every trace that has been ingrained into my memory.  I have waited for the day when I can wake up and not have to say your name.  That day is today.  February 1st.  The day when I can move on, and tell you the thing I've been dying to tell your sweet face since the day we met.

F*#% you.

Sincerely,

Nick

P.S.  Your mom's not that good in bed.