February is objectively the worst month of the year. The days are still short, the nights are still cold. There’s one invented holiday at the beginning where people pin their hopes for the end of dreariness on a magic weasel. Then there’s another invented holiday in the middle where half of the people feel guilty about the relationship they’re in the other half feels ashamed for not being in one. All just to sell greeting cards and candy.
Ironically, the only benefit of February is that it’s over as soon as possible—yet it somehow constitutes a ‘month’ despite having an inconsistent amount of days that are always fewer than 30. Rent, however, still costs the same.
Then it ends, and it’s still just fucking March.