It’s right in the middle of third quarter, which is right in the middle of the unbearable stretch between winter break and spring break. It’s when the last vestiges of winter cling tightly to us, desperately trying not to let go. It’s when couples make elaborate plans to celebrate Valentine’s Day, making those among us without a significant other retreat further into our hibernation holes to shovel more ice cream down our throats.

It’s when a furry creature pops out of a hole and arbitrarily tells us whether our wintry torture will continue for another six weeks or not. It’s when we celebrate big men running into each other while holding a ball that isn’t even round.

It’s February. It’s the worst month of the year.