January always makes me feel like I am wearing an old WW II helmet that somebody dug out of the mud in Europe. It is rusted, with disgusting insects and bugs crawling all over it, screaming in silent voices that only January can hear. It is heavy. Heavy because of the metal and muck, but emotionally and psychically heavy.
Wearing it sours my heart and curdles my charisma. Wearing it weakens me mentally and physically and then physically and mentally. It makes walking upright burdensome and pointless. Most January days mean that getting out of a chair is an undertaking that needs to be planned and prepared for.
January is the physical embodiment of cancer. January is a cold, dirty, and inescapable death. January stinks while possessing no aroma. The cruellest of months compels me to ponder my mortality, my brutality. It reminds me that I am less than worthless. Maybe I deserve it, and maybe Rod Stewart is singing You Wear It Well.
Why do you do this to me, January? Every single time. Why, why, why?
And yet, the January helmet I wear is just a piece of tin, likely formed in a stamping plant in Detroit or somewhere else in the Rust Belt. That same factory might now be pressing cans that eventually get stuffed with dolphin-free skipjack tuna. Or maybe it has been deserted and repurposed as an art gallery by opioid addicts and bored teens.
Peep show, creep show, why do I have these eyes?
Being jailed by a January sky is the Chinese finger trap of emotional imprisonment. A January sky allows almost no light to leak through. There is no light, never. And since January’s torment is an old trick, I asked Penn & Teller for suggestions on removing my “January helmet.” They are yet to get back to me. (They haven’t been the same since Alyson Hannigan left Fool Us.)
On the bright side, if there is one, I might try collecting rent from the bugs, filth, and Depression-era depression now encasing my brain. Rent is cheaper than sending a man to the moon these days, so if I can get these parasitic squatters to pay their fair share, I might have a new side hustle.
And Annie, don’t get your gun.
Your Tomorrow schtick is unwelcome here. I’ve seen the forecast. I’ll take “the gales of November” and whatever monsters Morrissey claimed that November spawned.
Just make January end. Please!
UPDATE!
The dingalings at Woodstock chanting “no rain, no rain!” accomplished diddly.
Here’s what my hate mail to January and all your love accomplished:
Perry's Pen 
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