March

March is a lying whore. One day its sixty degrees, the next day its twenty degrees, it snows, it rains, it exploits your emotions. November and March. They lie. November pretends to be fall until the 21st, March pretends to be spring on the 21st. November is winter. March is winter.
But March is more cruel. You see November coming. You know it will get cold, you will shovel snow until your internal organs explode, your car won't start, you will slip and fall on the ice and go to work with a wet ass.
Winter knocks you down and kicks you in the ribs as you slip trying to get up. It punches you in the nose and knocks a few teeth out. It kicks you in the kidneys as you lie, trembling and crying, on the ice.
But March. March taunts you. Just as you are weak and exhausted, praying for warmth and relief, thinking you cannot go on for one more day, March gives you sixty degrees. If you weren't so desperate you'd look around at three feet of snow and realize this can't be real. But you are like a heroin addict. You want it. Bad. And blam the next day it is twenty degrees and your body and mind are screaming. Then rain. Fifty degrees. Nineteen degrees, snow and ice. You are crawling towards spring but March has to get in a few more kicks. It is a cruel month using nature's superiority to prey on human weakness.
March and November. They are lying whores. And every goddamn year we pay for their services with our blood and crushed psyches.
Give me June, July and August. I trust them and love them. This year I will run naked through the summer and ignore the taunts of those who do not appreciate the inherent beauty of a well sculpted beer belly.