...February is. Even if I misspell it the majority of the time, It's my damn month. My birth month to be precise. Now it's car tax month and that bites. Never bothered me before because I drove beaters. Now I have a truck that is a couple of years old. I went from about $30 a month to about $200. Boing!! The worst part is I forget everytime that taxes are due in February until I get that postcard bill.

And my youngest brother has been eating shitflakes for breakfast every day this week. He lost his job, his dog is sick, and his father-in-law had a heart attack. So he's got that going for him, which is not so nice.

Oh and I turn 35 this month. Another couple of years I will catch up to my mother's age. She's a bit of a liar that one. Every milestone after 30 blows unless you are doing well in life. And so, uh yeah. February, piss off.

All of this contributes to my scene in the bookstore today. I'm reading this memoir by Brad Land called "Goat". He's a young fellow and he discusses his recovery from an incident that happened when he was nineteen. That's how his family refers to it as the 'incident'. I only read the first section but tears got past my glasses before I noticed. An older woman across from me asked if I was okay and I mumbled some excuse and dashed out of the store. It was a moving book, swear.