January often brings out some of the worst in me, as witness the following outcroppings of despair, or worse:

If I ever get serious about the business of expunging personal delusions, the first one that's got to go is the one that says that it's possible to maintain some semblance of an existence without an endless parade of frustrations. It may be feasible for some people, but obviously it's never going to happen for me; the only way I can get away from One Damn Thing After Another is to put as much distance between myself and everyday life as I possibly can. This worked fairly well during last year's World Tour, but that leaves forty-nine weeks out of fifty-two where things just fester.  (7 January 2002)

Then there was this:

Under different circumstances, this might be appealing in its serenity, even beautiful in a way. Unfortunately, most of us have to go drive in this crap tomorrow. Meanwhile, the clouds won't budge, and well, you get the idea.  (30 January 2002)

And if it's not the weather, it's the empty dance card:

[A]ll else being equal, we guys would prefer to be the brains of the operation. This is certainly true of some of us; historically, I have often been drawn to women of greater intelligence than mine, but there's always that nagging thought in the back of my mind: "If she's that smart, what in the world would she want with the likes of me?"  (2 January 2003)

Now I'm quite sure that with a little effort you can find comparably-aggrieved postings here from any month of the year, but there's something uniquely depressing about January: once you've survived it, February, a month with nothing whatever to recommend it except shortness, is staring you in the face. The Romans should have left well enough alone and kept March as the first month of the year, if you ask me.

The Vent

  9 January 2005

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 Copyright © 2005 by Charles G. Hill