I hate the month of January.
It is like some screwed up, desolate echochamber of death.
January 1995- My grandfather died, because of a doctor's mistake, which could have easily been prevented.
January 28, 2000- I got into an accident, and almost killed two people. One was a pregnant teenage girl with no money. The other was her grandmother.
January 10th, 2001- For no reason, other than the fact that he made people happy, someone senselessly murdered my dog.
January 2002- My friend Geralynn DeSoto was murdered by serial killer Derrick Todd Lee. Of course, no one knew she was murdered by Derrick Todd Lee at the time, and it took two years for that to come out, and for his subsequent trial. I didn't see her the day she was murdered. She came by the office to see us, but I wasn't there. I was at a funeral.
January 2005- Clean up (as they're saying) in Southeast Asia.
On a much lessor note: January 2005- My dog, Buddy, who had at least 50 lives, died.
All the debt from last year catches up.
Business is terrible.
It's as cold as Dante's ninth circle of hell.
If everything goes to hell, it usually goes to hell in January. Everything breaks, everyone gets sick. It sucks.
Every four years, it's the longest time before someone else can be sworn in for President, which always puts at least 50% of us Americans (and sometimes the world) out of luck.
But, the land is beautiful. Everything is dead, awaiting rebirth. The sky is a pantheon to gray, and the Earth is naked and bare. The sun, itself, becomes detatched from the light it sheds, and sometimes, when it sets, breathes colors into the atmosphere that should not exist in such a terribly dead world. Yet, each shade does exist, and somewhere, beneath the surface, life is ready to explode.
I am always waiting for life.