February is an abyss of desolation where I grind away each day hoping that eventually I’ll again be motivated enough to leave my apartment–or my bedroom for that matter–for any reason other than pure necessity. To my knowledge, only one good thing has happened in February. Ever. My mom was born on the 22nd, and she’s a pretty damn cool lady. If she wasn’t born, I wouldn’t exist. So, by my count, it’s been more than half a century since anything positive happened during this black hole of a calendar page.
Plenty of terrible shit has happened in February, though. The St. Valentine’s day massacre. The space shuttle Columbia. The sixteenth amendment.
Hunter S. Thompson killed himself shortly after Super Bowl 39. The first line of his suicide note reads, “Football season is over.”
Preach the fuck on, brother.
Sure, the Super Bowl is in February. But that’s just one day during the first week of the month—I don’t even realize it’s February until the day after the game, and that’s when I’m like “OOOHHH FUCKING NO IT’S FEBRUARY AND EVERYTHING IS MISERY I WISH I WAS A BEAR SO I COULD BURRY MYSELF IN MUD AND WAKE UP IN SPRING FUCK THIS SHIT WHY DO I LIVE HERE WHAT IS EVEN MY PURPOSE ON EARTH BUT TO EAT DORITOS IN BED”
Oh, and then we’ve got Valentine’s Day—on the surface, a well-intended day meant to celebrate love. Obviously, this whack-ass “holiday,” was created to boost restaurant sales during a month where people have zero desire to leave their homes, and have barely recovered from the thousands of dollars in debt they accrued during the Christmas season—Alright, after paying my credit card bills the last two months, I’ve finally got some breathing roo—OH FUCK there it is, the fucking fourteenth day of the month and I’ve gotta take Sally/Edna/Rosita to Mortons/Sizzler/Olive Garden/some other shit I can’t afford and it’s back to the maxed-out motel for this guy.
Of course, the only thing worse than being in a relationship on February fourteenth is being hopelessly, desperately single. You spend the week or two leading up to v-day trying to find someone who doesn’t think you’re so ugly they can barely chew their Red Lobster biscuits without gagging while looking across a table at you, and even if you DO find this equally sad degenerate, by that time all the decent establishments are overbooked and you’ll have to take them to Chipotle.
Once, I was in a wedding party for which the ceremony took place on Valentine’s Day. I had been dumped about a month prior, and despite my efforts to find a date, I was unsuccessful. Furthermore, the bride did not want the members of the wedding party to drink until we’d all arrived at the reception—which was exactly as miserable as it sounds. Upon further review, I have no idea why I didn’t bring a flask. I suppose I was trying to be respectful. New rule—If I can’t drink during every part of your wedding, we’re not friends anymore.
There are few people on this earth for whom I’d participate in the dog and pony show that is one’s wedding, and even fewer for whom I’d allow myself to be paraded around and photographed in strange clothes at aesthetically pleasing locations WHILE FUCKING SOBER. But, we all make grave sacrifices for our closest allies. Of course, as soon as I was allowed to consume, I guzzled every poisonous beverage I could reach as though I’d returned from a 2 week vision quest in some desert and was on the verge of death from dehydration. I was asleep on my friend’s couch by 11pm after I threw up and used his toothbrush. I hope cupid gets unwillingly gangbanged and skull-fucked with his own arrow.
Sure, there’s hockey—but it’s not even playoff hockey. And the fact that my favorite team is led by a kid from a rich family who probably got away with rape at least once has soured me on the sport for the time being. Or maybe I’m just so used to rooting for losing teams that I don’t know how to properly enjoy a winning one. Spring training? Sure, cool. Ever tried to watch a spring training game? They’re worse than pre-season football games, and there are more of them. Like, hundreds more. NOT GOOD ENOUGH FEBRUARY. DO BETTER.
The absolute best thing about the second month of the year is that it’s also the shortest. While the Caesars were excellent at self-aggrandizing by lengthening the months dedicated to them, they knew how to take care of their people. An extra day in August, an extra day in July, fuck—September’s not a bad month! Throw September a bone! By the time the calendar had been permanently altered, we’d whittled February down to 28 measly days. That is, until some jerkface decided to add a 29th every four years and call those “election years.” Whoever made this decision has a goddamn cruel sense of humor.
Well. Eleven down, eighteen to go. I’ll see you in March if I don’t develop bed sores by then.