The month of January is a habitually dry one. The air feels like it came from the desolate Sahara, the collective pockets of the citizenry can be likened to a lady whose menopause came early. Dry, and without hope of giving fruits. And if you’re lucky to have some form of gainful employment, you’ll find the boss to be a recalcitrant ass. Paranoid, petulant, and deserving of a bullet through his stubborn butt.

This January stays true to habit. It’s a stereotypical January for me. Big dreams have been built over the preceding holiday, so were plans to get to the ‘next level’. But when all of that unravels poorly, and with the January syndrome kicking in, you’ll be hard pressed find a part of yourself that enjoys the thought of waking up every morning, fired within, veins bulging, happiness welling deep within the heart, rushing to get to work and add value to society.

No. Especially if your bosses do not share the same sentiments, or bother to look at your own page of life. No.

I have tried my hands at the things that previously made me tickle with basic delight. Big boring books, football, strange music, food, women, sex, alcohol, hiking…not one feels good anymore. The big boring books have become truly big and boring. The food tastes like glorified shit, the music feels like a song of sorrows, sex is too distracting, women are admirably scary and needy, alcohol tastes like sin, and hiking is simply a waste of time.

This wasn’t how the year was supposed to begin. In no part of my year book was I supposed to feel less like a man, and more of a machine who only looks like me. I planned to feel great, work like a man with a mission, and revel in the happiness of thrilling my readers, and maybe get lucky with some new women. But no, January is killing that all.

I can’t wait for this drab month to end. I can’t wait to feel my awesomeness return, and maybe bring back my old boss who was stubborn alright, but at least, could listen. I want to thrive, not just survive. I want to come alive with each stroke of my keyboard. I want to create sincere art, and not a shadow of what could be passed as mere writing. I want to feel life within me again.

Above all, I want January to pack its bag and get out of my existence. I hope it reads this.