T.S. Eliot Had It All Wrong

April isn’t the cruelest month. January clearly is. One generally begins the new year hungover, but hopeful, filled with noble intentions. By mid-month, the resolutions have all been broken (if you’re like me), and you’re left with the detritus (mental and physical) of the holidays to clean up.

I’ve been a bad blogger, but it has a lot to do with the whole January thing. Nothing ever happens in January. At least not for me. I have nothing to write about. For example, the January has included the following:

1. One extremely dead tree that was finally removed from my apartment last weekend. It was so dry that the needles weren’t just falling off, the branches were actually snapping off if you moved anywhere in its vicinity. Lord Kissington carried it down to the loading dock and I followed him, picking up branches and twigs (which on the plus side is much easier than having to sweep up 800,000 needles).

2. A fancy new computer has arrived. Sadly, the fancy new internet service is not yet up and running, so the aforementioned computer isn’t being used much.

3. I’ve been sick twice already this year: once with a general post-holiday exhaustion sort of malaise (I’m willing to admit that one might have been mental) and a killer cold, from which I’m still recovering. It’s snot galore and I am so over it.

4. I watched the entire second season of One Tree Hill and have started Season 3. I’m still kind of embarrassed, but this show is ridiculously gripping. I can’t stop watching. And it kept vastly me entertained while I was too sick to get out of bed.

5. Putting aside all the important books I received for Christmas (The Complete Claudine, The Wives of Henry VIII, and The Letters of Abelard and Heloise) in favor of rereading old mysteries because it’s just less mentally taxing.

So, as you can see, January has been a big fat nothing so far. January, you have 13 days left to wow me. I’ve already moved on to your shorter, but hopefully snowier and less dreary sibling February.

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