As we descend onto March, a feeling of relief will take over me as it does every year. Because February is the worst month of the year. It should be abolished. It should be broken up and spread throughout the others.

First, February is hardly even a month. To me, a month needs to have 30 days. My favorite months are the ones with 31 days because they go above and beyond. There’s my birth month of May, October, July and December. But February? Even in its best year, February only has 29 days to its name. 

Would it kill February to actually try? February isn’t a month — it’s two fortnights who live together with their cousin, the 29th, crashing every four years. 

Next, the weather is horrendous. I’m not extremely bigoted against winter, but by the time January ends, I’m tired of the snow and ice. Then, there’s all that slush. All of that nasty, semi-frozen, brown liquid that oozes onto the sidewalks. Good luck wearing sneakers when you have that slush out and about. 

February is also the month with all of those ridiculous holidays. We spend the second day of February bowing down to the alleged “wisdom” of a rodent. As far as I’m concerned, Bill Murray was justified when he took that Punxsutawney Phil with him and drove the truck off a cliff in the beloved classic “Groundhog Day.” 6 more weeks of winter or an early spring? Who cares? Winter has gone on for too long anyway.

Then there’s Valentine’s Day. It’s said that Feb. 14 is the death of Saint Valentine, but I think it’s because we need something positive in our lives during this barren wasteland of a month. But, if you’re single, then that’s just one more strike against the tiniest and most pathetic of months. 

And, of course, there’s Super Bowl Sunday. I actually have no complaints there. I always love watching football with friends with lots of unhealthy snacks and drinks. It’s the American dream. Granted, I could do without all the people complaining about the halftime show on Facebook this year. But you can’t have everything.

Out of all the great months in the year, we have the nerve to make February Black History Month. The United States gave a holiday to honor the hard work and sacrifice of Black Americans to the shortest and most miserable month. That’s just a great metaphor for this country. Even when America tries to do something nice for minority communities, it still finds a way to short them.

This is a month so bad that, when rock legends Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper, were killed in a plane crash on February 3, 1959, it was declared “The Day The Music Died.” February almost killed music.

As crazy as March is with the unpredictable weather, at least the sun is out and I can wear t-shirts by the end of the month. But then my mortal enemies come out to torment me: Canadian geese.