Dear November

Dear November 2011,

Fuck you. Seriously.

It wasn’t enough to start the month with two kids with Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease, a time change, and a smack-tonne of rain. You had to give me a 13-day headache, neck spasms, a head cold, four canker sores, and my period.

Fine, one of those things would have happened anyway. BUT COME ON.

I tried, November. You know I don’t hold a grudge against you, like some people. I wrote a novel during you, once. I wrote a blog post a day, one year. This year, just to be funny, I wrote a post about how to survive you. It was just supposed to be a cute post. It wasn’t meant to be a challenge. You ass.

This morning, when I woke up, my head didn’t hurt. At first I thought I was probably dead. I spent an hour in the middle of the night listening to it throb and wondering if that doctor I saw last week was wrong and maybe I do have a tumour the size of Shangri-La pressing on my whatchimasomethings. But no — I was not dead, my head was attached, and yet I did not feel much pain.

No fool, I sat up very slowly. Still, it didn’t hurt. I stood up — ah, there it was. My old friend, Spike In the Brain. But when I moved around, the pain kind of … faded, instead of intensifying.

I actually felt better.

Holy fucking hallellujah and pass the beans.

I have made it through six hours of my day without taking a muscle relaxant, an ibuprofen, an excedrin, let alone several of each. I have not heated up my magic bag once, let alone every fifteen minutes. I can sit here and type this which, frankly, is a miracle. I haven’t been able to sit at my computer for longer than 10 minutes in days.

Why don’t you want me to write, November? What do you think I’ll tell the world? THAT YOU’RE AN ASS?

Your parting shot this morning, where we arrived home from walking Trombone to school and my key stuck in the lock and I couldn’t get it out so I had to take the deadbolt off the door and then I couldn’t get it back on for two hours and it was freezing cold and I had to keep my neck bent the whole time? Nice touch. But I still win.

Why?

Because tomorrow it will be December.

Don’t the door hit you on the way out, November. I’m done being nice to you. Next year I’m going to Belize.

Yrs in readiness,
Clara