Someone is drumming in the air vents today in the library. du-du-du-du-DA-du-du-du-DA-du-DA-du-DA. At least their drumsticks are lightly tapping.
It’s writing and editing in the library. I’ve got a window seat in a yellow arm chair, so the only thing missing is a cup of coffee. And that’s only because it’s too cold for me to run across the street to get some.
Or maybe I’m just too lazy to put my big, down coat and warm scarf back on, pack up all my stuff, and get the java. I’ll stick to my one-cup-a-day mantra for now. Mantra subject to change without notice.
February is one of those months that I always forget about. I actually forget that it exists. I mean, it’s slightly shorter than all of the other months, and this time of year always feels like it’s in fast forward. I think I typically wish February away. It’s the last of the winter months, sort of. February is ALWAYS cold. March is typically pretty cold too, but there’s at least a little bit more hope for a bit of sunshine and more rain than snow. Plus, there are family birthdays to look forward to (namely, mine and my sister’s), which means cake. And cake means that the cold seems less awful.
It’s almost over, isn’t it? February, I mean. I feel so bad, February. I neglected to appreciate you while you were here. I got busy and didn’t even get out the fine china (aka, my “Keep Calm and Rule Britannia” mug). I didn’t even offer you a cup of tea.
My apologies, February. You’re just kind of like a step-child in comparison to the newness of January and the cake that March offers me. Not that step-children can’t be loved and adored just like biological children.
I suppose I should appreciate February more.