dear february.

dear february--

mister february, that is. (you see, i've decided that your relentless cold and your likely-inadvertent crummy ways indicate you're probably male. because only a male would put a hallmark holiday in the middle of an otherwise icky month thinking it would make it better. no offense to the male half(ish) of the race in general, or even to you, really, but sometimes y'all are clueless and totally unaware. but i digress...)

so anyway, dear sir, i'd like to request a truce, please. a deal. an arrangement. an agreement. i know it's a week until you begin, but i'm tired of harboring resentment, and i'm tired from the last six months of stomach/nose drama and sad family stuff and money weirdness, and i think i'd like to make a deal.

i won't say anything bad about you anymore if you'll let me *enjoy* you, the shortest month of the year, instead of counting down the days until you're over. i realize that's asking a lot--what with you having an extra day this year and all--but i've got a fun trip planned, and i get to give people girl scout cookies, and my nose should be all better and i've organized a panty exchange and i get to go to a place called "mad hatter's" which automatically gets props because of my favorite book and there's the youth dinner theater and PLEASE.

please.

here's hoping we have have reached an accord...

with sincerest gratitude (in advance),
carrie