It's A Leap Year, That Means February Sucks That Much More

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It's A Leap Year, That Means February Sucks That Much More

By Jack Lepiarz
Feb. 2, 2008

I have written an article about February every year for the past three years. Anyone who knows me will tell you that February is truly not my month. I don't know why it is, how it works, but bad things just seem to happen to me in February. Maybe it's karma, some kind of cosmic balance for all the lucky breaks I get in every other area of my life, maybe even some kind of ancient jinx from someone I slighted in a past life. In any case, I really do hate February. There are not enough expletives in the English language in order to properly express my hatred for the next 29 days.

But I know what you're thinking--"Jack, seriously, one month can't be THAT bad. It's all just in your head."

That's just false.

"Jack, if you go into this negatively, of course you're going think everything sucks."

That may actually be true, but regardless, let's look at the last four Februaries, starting back in 2004.

2004: I book a short one and one half hour flight to Portland, Maine from Newark International Airport in New Jersey. First the plane's delayed from the gate. Then on the runway. Then when we finally reach Portland, the plane manages to land itself in pothole. We spend twenty minutes trying to get out of the pothole. We fail. Then the pilot announces that airport personnel are rolling a staircase up to help us off the plane. Out of my window, I manage to catch a glimpse of the stairs tip over and fall on the runway. While in Maine, I buy a box of chocolates for the day before Valentine's Day. Three hours later, she gives up all forms of sweets for the next three months. My flight back is delayed an additional two and a half hours and one of my bags gets lost on the way back. Oh, and I get in my first fist-fight in almost five years.

2005: Sprained my ankle, sprained my wrist, got caught up both my school play and early practices for the baseball team. Not much really happened in the entire year of 2005. This was actually a fairly light year.

2006: Dear Lord, The first day of February was one of the worst days of the year, my car's muffler fell off (multiple times). I spent most of the month trying to make my best friend fall in love with me and then the second half hating myself for failing miserably (again). I also had the less than enviable experience of trying to learn lines for not two, not three, not four, but five different shows (all of which conveniently went on stage in March. Coincidence? Not a chance.

2007: February 1st: I spend all night working on a paper for my Research Writing. It's my first paper of the semester and a key factor in my final grade. On February 2nd, I go to work at 4:00 AM. When I get home, I decide to take a quick nap before I have to wake up for class. I wake up two hours after class ends and fail the paper. In the middle of the month, I am taken violently ill (no, not like that) at a social gathering. By February 27th, I'm feeling March coming along and have high hopes, but these hopes are shattered when I go to brush my teeth one evening and discover that, alas, my door won't work. My roommate, on the other side, assumes I'm holding the door closed. I assume that he's the one holding it closed. As it turns out, the doorknob simply broke, leaving me trapped inside while we wait for facilities to fix faulty Emerson architecture.

2008: I'm writing this on January 29th, and I have quite a few ideas of how February will ruin my life again. I'm thinking a major injury from weekly football games, several early-morning fire alarms (we've had two in the last week), plenty of looking-for-off-campus-housing woes, and probably several rejections from hopeful internships this summer. Mid-terms and snow are a given, naturally, but really, the fun of February comes from not having any idea what random crap it's going to throw at you.

I am fully challenging February of 2008, all 29 days of it, to do everything in its Satanic power to ruin my life. I am completely prepared to meet the freezing elements, fight off muggers at five in the morning, even whip myself in the face in the name of hating February.

February, you're dead to me.

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About the author: Jack Lepiarz is 19, goes to school in Boston, and is a big Yankees fan.

He works as a freelance circus performer cracking whips, throwing knives, and injuring himself. He drives a Honda Civic, likes listening to the Arctic Monkeys, and his favorite word is bisque.

He holds himself in very high esteem.

Email: Jackwuzhere42@aol.com

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