I know you’re not looking forward to this meeting, January, and frankly, neither am I. It’s like we go through the same thing year after year. Am I just talking to myself?!
I gotta be honest here—I am not sad to see you go. You, with your icy winds and hazey sky. You have no sense of humor, and no sense of mercy. If you were a child, you’d be locked up already; the authorities deeply disturbed at your lack of conscience.
I know it isn’t easy for you—who wants to follow December? Everybody loooooves December with her gawby decor, bright lights, and pine-scented goodness. Everybody’s running around trying for world peace and goodwill toward men with December. From an onlooker, I can see where that might get annoying—I get that. But, really, why do you have to be such a beast about it?
Why couldn’t you come out—at the world’s biggest party we throw for you on your very first entrance on the scene—with something truly original? Like a big wad of sunshine to throw out to the crowd, for example, or maybe a rainbow every day. A balmy breeze wouldn’t kill you, and you might just like the way you feel when people walk outside and spend a moment appreciating you.
But instead, you stand there smugly, year after year feeling bad for yourself and punishing everyone else for it. As much as you wish it would make you feel better, I can tell it doesn’t. You aren’t happy, January; you’re not kidding anyone.
I suggest that as you leave tonight, you spend the next eleven months taking a long, hard look at yourself. I know it’s not good to compare, but you could really learn a lesson or two from cheerful May and robust August. People are still talking about them (and in the good way). If you’ll just let your guard down, you might surprise yourself.
So, be gone now. Think about what I’ve said and decide who you really want to be. It’s never too late to change.