Dear January,

Frankly, you exhaust me. I can say little of the hospitality your dreariness lends.  We're running out of fresh oxygen.  February, be kind to me.  Each night I re-acquaint my body with sleep, and vow never to leave my bed again.

But growing up is giving away your time, space, and energy.  Simply adjusting to the things you abhor.  Growing up is shedding tears at the sight of something you've only laughed at on a hundred occasions before.  It's that feeling of shock and disgust when you finally get the joke.  We're running out of ideas.

It's a lousy sensation, realizing that anyone I came to admire has only been tolerating me.  A charade of pleasantries.  Nodding heads and curtsies.   Then comes a confirmation of my greatest fears.

So how could I ever thank you, for humoring me all of these years?

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