January

January vapes with illegally flavored vape pens. She is on the outskirts, looking in. She is the serial killer in the corn field, luring you to your death in a makeshift hole in the ground. January might in fact be that hole in the ground, and not the killer herself - but you wouldn't know; you're already six feet underground.

January is the person at the party who both talks too much and also says nothing of substance, she licks a chip and then puts it back in the bowl. She has no redeeming qualities. January doesn't leave a tip for the bartender and cuts people off in traffic who were going to speed limit. She enjoys the dark, and being alone, and when you ask her if that's horrible, she says, "that is reality."

But January goes deeper. She gets in your head. At the lunch table, she might stare too long at what you're eating, and then look at your body too closely. She gossips. She is a nihilist. She hates everyone. She hates her life. Most of all - she hates you.

January is there with you when you make decisions, like what to say in front of important people at work. She is anxiety, and madness, and shuts you down, turns you off, is dead inside, and makes you wish you were dead, too.

January sits on the stoop outside, enjoying her illegal vape pen, when I come over to sit next to her. I'm drawn to her - I have to be. January is necessary to live through. She is the first of twelve months. She is the first roadblock. She is the first challenge.

Today, January talks. She talks like this: YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHIT YOU ARE A WASTE OF SPACE YOU ARE NOTHING EVERYONE HATES YOU YOU SHOULD DIE RIGHT NOW, RIGHT HERE, BECAUSE YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE SHIT EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING.

I'm not a screamer, so I internalize that voice. I make it my own.

Unfortunately for me, January leads as the first month, which means that mantra is stuck in my head all year.

Also unfortunately for me, I am an anxious person who believes every word January says. I am just short of asking for a puff of her vape pen.

I make it better by distancing myself. Boundaries, as they say. Sometimes her voice is low, never quite silenced, but low like a soft whistle.

She is a killer, kind of like the goddess of death - and I am here, every year, ready with my shovel, to be buried six feet underground.