And not even a good dick. You’re like a stubby, insistent little dick that keeps poking me. I’ve said NO, March, so stop poking.
I’m going to sleep until you’re over.
I hate you.
I hate you because you’re cold and wet. You keep dumping snow way, way after snow has ceased to be the magical school-closing powder it is in December. This snow is heavy, encrusted with a half-inch-thick layer of ice that makes shoveling back-breaking and walking dangerous. We now have one giant, glassy pedestal on which to finely display our several dozen piles of dog shit. Is it Make Art Out of Shit Month, March? If so, well played.
I hate you because you bring standardized testing to my classroom, which makes everyone stressed out for no reason. You give kids two hours to finish a test section they complete in twenty minutes, after which I’m responsible for keeping them entertained. Did I mention there are no electronic devices allowed in the room? There aren’t, and you know it, March. You just like to watch me to try to gut out an hour’s worth of Seven-Up, you icy sadistic motherfucker.
I hate you because every single year, you let me get sick, and then you sit back and watch while I wait for hours at a crowded clinic for a nurse to orally or nasally violate me with a cotton swab. “Now, some people say this is unpleasant,” she’ll say before ramming my right nostril, leaving my sinuses burning and my eyes full of tears. Influenza B, she’ll say when she returns. Nothing they can give me, but I’ll feel like the walking dead for two weeks and possibly infect my whole family.
I hate you because you make me do my taxes, and you laugh because you know my appointment at H & R Block is the only time I’ve had away with my husband in three months.
I hate you because you bring the birthday of my least favorite ex, reminding me how I never stood up for myself when he belittled me. If only he could see me now, still not achieving a damn thing as a writer, coughing and sneezing as I stumble through the ice-covered parking lot toward my hot date at the strip mall H & R Block. Oh yes. I have arrived.
Pretty soon the pools will begin, because in March some fuckers in uniforms try to get a ball away from some other fuckers in uniforms and throw it through a basket, and people bet on it. There is something called a “bracket.” I don’t know what any of it is, but people don’t stop talking about it. Thus that stubby little dick keeps poking and poking right on through thirty-one days, every one of them sucking a fucking nutwagon.
But you can’t last forever, March. Like all stubby dicks you’ll come and go, and when you’re on the way out, I’ll be celebrating. Hello my birthday, flowers, and chocolate bunnies; goodbye ice, soggy dog shit, standardized testing, basketball, influenza, nostril rape, and taxes. Catch you assholes next year.