Agatha: So, February, how are you? It’s been a year since I saw you last, and back then, you appeared to be having some … um … anger issues.
February: *steepling its monthly fingers* Really? I don’t recall anything like that.
Agatha: Oh, I think you do. See? You have this habit, you blow into my life once a year, set up residence on my couch, and proceed to make sure that anything that can go wrong. Does.
Feb: I really think you’re confusing me with someone else. Do you, perhaps, mean Steve Buscemi?
Ag: What? No. What the fuck. Steve Buscemi has never been to any of my homes, and he certainly doesn’t appear to have a yearly vendetta against me. And he’s not a calendar month. You are. You are the one that made sure through my childhood that my birthday would be a snow day so that I would have to spend it home alone, away from the few friends I have.
Feb: Children love snow!
Ag: Shut it! You are the one who made sure that I fell into a soul-crushing depression every year for my birthday.
Feb: Adults love soul-crushing depression! Otherwise, why would they have so much of it?
Ag: Well, in part, because of YOU. You bring that shit to almost everyone.
Feb: You should have said. You could have returned it.
Ag: Returned it? Where does one return unwanted mental health issues? Because I think even Walmart’s return policy is a bit strict on that one.
February shrugs its shoulder, leans back, and takes a sip out of the “I HEART Mondays” mug the month carries around like a badge of disdain for everyone and everything.
Ag: This year, you’ve managed to give my son, my nine year old kid, his first ever stress-related breakdown. You’ve given me a stomach virus that borders on medieval torture. You’ve caused immense shitloads of hardship for the people that I love and care for. And it will not fucking stand. From this day forward, you are to back the fuck off and behave like every other month of the year. You will not make things worse anymore by your mere existence. You will not mess with the lives of the people that I protect. Get me?
Feb: What, exactly, do you think you can do to me? I’m just a month. Just days stamped on a calendar. A few holidays, some bad greeting cards, and time. That ones the imporant thing, girly. I am TIME. So listen, here. You will stop trying to make this month better. You will stop trying to have a good attitude about it, because I’m here to make sure you can’t. You will stop even looking for a motherfucking silver lining, because there isn’t one. For the next twenty-four days–oh, and how I love a leap year–your world is mine. Stop trying to control it, because you don’t have any control. Stop trying to find a way to like it, because honestly, I don’t want you to like it. And when you push me, I will push back. Do you get me?
Ag: So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?
Feb: Yup. Game on then?
Ag: Game. On.