In which the calendar page turns over, thanks be

Less than two hours to go until I can finally kiss this shitstorm otherwise known as the Worst. October. EVAR. goodbye.

I’ve always dreamed of October, yearned for October, counted the months, then weeks, then days. October has been the month I wish would never end, possessing the mood, the weather, the colors and light, the soul, for lack of a better word, that I wish persisted for nine or ten months out of the year. How satisfied I would be to live on Planet October.

And if you had ever said to me that there would be an October that I’d find anything other than inspiring, healing, energizing, beautiful, evocative, head-clearing, comforting, enriching, and otherwise perfect, I’d have laughed in your face. Well, now I know better. Not only has this past month not been any of those things, it’s been complete rot from one end to the other, an unceasing thirty-one day karmic boot up the ass. My head is impenetrably fogged-in, my heart might as well be made of lead, senses duller than ditchwater, body wrecked, sleepless, no appetite, edgy as hell, and scared half to death - that’s how I’ve spent the month.

All through no one’s fault but mine.

Begone, October. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love you again. I hope so, but you might be fated to henceforth be the month of regret and bitter memory, to be only dreaded and gotten through with gritted teeth and hunched shoulders and tears.

___________________________

Wait a sec, Isabella Rossellini’s on Graham Norton, and as usual looks like she’s having the most fun of anyone in the room. Maybe October is attempting to redeem itself at the very last minute.

Still, I can’t bring myself to think of what November has in store. Truly.