Dear January,
You have less than fifteen minutes left until you're gone for the rest of the year. I can't wait for you to be gone. You've never been terribly kind to me, and this year was particularly bad.
I won't be at all sorry to see you gone for eleven more months. And I'll be equally unexcited to see you come back in eleven months. I just have nothing good to say about or to you.
Maybe one of these years you'll surprise me and give me something good, but I won't be holding my breath. I'll wait for the bad stuff with you, and expect the better stuff with ANY OTHER MONTH.
Because, January, I hate you.
So get out of here, and take your blahs, your disappointments, and your general unpleasantness with you.
Bring on February.
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