February 2.
Today is Groundhog Day. Groundhog Day 2023 is a joke so blunt it goes beyond cruelty and becomes fact. Nothing is good, anymore; everything is dumb. What are six more weeks of winter in the face of winter’s forever retreat? What six fewer when we look to fungal zombies for entertainment even as they walk among us?
February 1.
The beginning of the First Form of the Month of Despair. (February is not the True Month of Despair; August is its Final Form.) The “I’m getting too old for this shit” of months. Replenish your supply of whisky and firewood and vegetable stock and prepare your diaphragm for a sharp uptick in wistful sighing.
February 3-5.
See January 21-22.
February 12.
The Super Bowl is to happiness as the cardboard circle beneath your frozen pizza is to food.
February 6.
The first Monday of the month. Mondays no longer have any power over you. But you won’t realize this until you find the tiny, shriveled piece of corn under the refrigerator that’s just right for you.
February 27.
“7” is a happier digit than “6.” Nothing can injure you today. You aren’t happy, understand. But drifting through the day carries a lethargic imperviousness than you can learn to harness. February is lethargy practice.
February 25.
Take a spa day. Go to the nearest Korean spa, strip naked among strangers, and let a Korean grandmother in a track suit scrub the dead skin from your body with a vigor to make despots pay respect. Lie down in saunas so hot and all-consuming they stir your reptilian memories of the womb and rouse you to a paradoxical slumber. Do this indefinitely. The spa is 24-hours: you’ll never be alone.
February 26.
Johnny Cash’s birthday. Celebrate in black.
February 9.
The birthday of one of the most infamous shows from one of the most high-profile and best-navigated midlife crises of all time. Tom Brady, take notes.
February 8; February 10-11.
Blank void.
February 7.
At some point today, you will think “It’s a week ’till Valentine’s Day. I have plenty of time.” Write this on a post-it note and staple it to your forehead or scramble at the last minute forever.
February 14.
A chance for meaningful sex. Take it.
February 15.
Keep the streak alive.
February 16.
Spend the day in bed. Alone, if you have to. It’s the third day in a row: you’ve made something from nothing: you made fire from flint. Add twigs and twists of newspaper to the blaze. Add spirit and tenderness. Burn.
February 17.
Trees and plants will bloom that should not be blooming. You are right to worry about this. The time to save the planet for humanity and its children is long past. But the time to save ourselves alone, to embrace what we can still feel of life, remains. Stare into the blooms and buds like the spectrum-opposite of the Valentine’s morning cliché sifter and use what you see there as motivation to do something affirming with this moment. Presumably, that will mean more sex. Lean into your decision.
February 13.
The day before Valentine’s Day. For God’s sake, do all your last-minute planning and scrambling today – do it on the 13th for the love of the good fucking lord who made you and then just ducked out to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes. The assembly of poor bastards mounting the greeting card selection first thing Valentine’s morning is one of the saddest, most pathetic tableaux you will ever witness: nothing but limp ankles and a thousand crushing regrets playing on hyperloop behind dead eyes scanning for signs of life among printed clichés so meaningless it’s easier to stare directly at the sun. You do not, you do not, you do not want to be a part of their world. Save yourself; they’re already dead.
February 28.
The Sesame Street theme song will play in your head, unbidden, several times throughout the day. Sing it.
