I cannot claim that I will be sad as you go away. I cannot even pretend I liked you in any small measure. You were long, unending and excruciating. If you brought some measure of cheer in you, apart from the fact that you left me alive, I would have had some regard for you. I am grateful for life, indeed I am, but when there’s an invisible army of things that marches on some very good coke and constantly hits you with its worst, then I am the kind of person who forgets to be thankful that I am alive and tends to start wondering where the fuck my good luck went.
You’ve spared no effort to make this month as difficult, miserable even, as possible. When I took care of the bloody rats, you brought on car accidents; when I took care of that you decided I couldn’t keep my househelp because she was an illegal immigrant. When that was taken care of you decided my parents could be grumpy around me all day and leave me completely befuddled as to why they couldn’t just finally be cheerful, now that I am slowly learning not to “experiment” with my life.
And I am not even mentioning my husband unfriending me on FB and a few dozen sleepless nights because of collective illnesses. I will also leave out one very important thing because for me that’s never a complaint — tons of work at work, leaving a rather disorganised me in a tizz, with no time for anything.
If you think I am the only one complaining about you, you really need to look at yourself again. I know people who agreed vehemently right there at the beginning, around September 6 that this month can’t end soon enough for each of our liking. Even today, as that cherished salary SMS came, I heard someone sigh with relief and say, “We should have outlawed this September.” I couldn’t agree more.
I loved August, and I look forward to October. September, you need to find something else to do and move out of our lives. I am sorry, but I have to be honest. Leave.
With no love lost,