They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong...However more abbreviated that its cousins it may look, February feels longer that any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old...Except the extent that it "tints the buds and swells the leaves within," February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.
Except for the fact that my birthday is in February, I realize that it's a crappy month. As Robbins also points out, there are plenty of "holidays" in February, but they're all pointless. Winter is enjoyable, because the bugs are dead and I prefer being too cold over too hot. However, this winter is dragging on too long. Global warming my ass.
I can't complain about anything, really. Life has been treating me well, even though I can't shake off this cold (which is probably now pneumonia according to WebMD). In exciting news, I saw John Slattery on the subway this week. Intern Friend's misguided attempt to distract us from our excitement was an over-loud discussion about the comic strip "Funky Winkerbean." It didn't work, so needless to say, I didn't breathe from Hudson St. to 14th St. I'll go ahead and say that he is the most handsome man I've ever seen in real life.
Swoon. Also, who knew that a comic strip with such a funny name could be so tragic?
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