Dear February,


I really hate you.  Ignoring your existence helps me cope with you for 337 days each year, but for those other 28 (or 29 on leap year, jerk), I am faced with your barren, frozen reality.  I wanted to take a moment to thank you for my chapped lips and dull, dry skin and static-y hair, for the sun glare that incinerates my retinas when it bounces off the old, dirty snow, for the treacherous driving conditions, and, most of all, for the way you make Winter, which was so beautiful and novel just 3 short days ago, into an eternal wasteland of bitter cold.  You suck.


Please go away,




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