Light at the End of the Tunnel?

I write a short story in eighth grade titled "February 23." On this day I always think about that. I don't even know where that story is or if it was any good. I'm guessing not. I picked that title because of my obsession with the number 23, and the thought that February is the worst month of the year. And while February can be miserable while we await spring, and it feels like winter will never end...I have come to hate March with every fiber of my being. February is nothing. It's a short month. I can handle it. I know the end is near. But for some reason I can barely tolerate March. March with it's dirty snow, sloppy wet muddiness, teasing sunshine, that feel of spring in the air. There's always a small part inside that feels like it's coming awake after being asleep for a long, long time. Like you have been in the darkness and you are finally seeing the light and feeling its warmth on your skin.

Shouldn't this be a good feeling?

Instead, March makes me feel like curling into the fetal position and listening to some Pink Floyd. I don't mean "The Wall," or even "Dark Side of the Moon." I'm talking early Pink Floyd, songs like "Paint Box" and "Julia Dream," and "Arnold Layne." It makes me want to give up. Throw in the towel. Say, "That's it. I can't do it any more. I gave it my best shot. I held on for almost the entire winter. All of my strength is used up. I don't even care anymore."

But I won't. It's just a hump to get over. And every year that hump seems to get a little smaller. So this year I will say, "Fuck you," to March, face it head on, and maybe even spite it by enjoying myself. It will take some strength and effort, but it will be worth it. I don't want to miss out on spring and summer.