I've mentioned before that I have a particular disdain for the month of February. It bears mentioning again.
February is a short, miserable, placeholder month. There's no real football being played--the Super Commercial (adds and hype interrupted by bad play) doesn't count. The two other seasons I care anything about--deer and duck--have closed. The weather stinks--alternating rapidly between soft spring-like teases and raw winter blasts.
February is a basketball month. I hate basketball. My hatred for the sport is rooted in its hatred for me. Basketball and I belong to an exclusive mutual acrimony society. I loathe the height-loving, ball-bouncing, no-contact shoe-squeaking and it revels in its enmity for me, putting my lack of court talent on quick display if ever I venture under the hoop.
February is a fallacious feel-good month, with holidays hijacked and invented to promote this and sell that.
February dies today. I'll dance on its grave tomorrow.