October starts as a tickle in the back of your throat, a nagging little sensation that something bigger looms. I can get over this, you say. Let me take some zinc. The next thing you know, October has put a copy of “Star Wars: Episode I” in the dishwasher, unbeknownst to you. Why is there even a copy of that in this house? One can only blame A. Husband. Why did one marry someone with such poor taste? October is bungled logistics and petty grievances and the horror of taking a shower every day. October secretly arranged to go out to lunch with your Saturn Return and talk about you, and then they strike up a friendship born of shared distaste for you and stay up late on the phone, planning new pranks. I know, says October, I am going to call and ask if she has Prince Albert in a can! This wakes up a ybab, by the way.
If caught in time, October can be cured by a brisk walk and smoking an entire pack of cigarettes while listening to Ziggy Stardust on repeat five times. There is currently no vaccination for October, and even if there were, it would probably give you cankles and ennui. October is highly contagious. You may have contracted October just from reading this.
The only thing worse than October is November!
Oh, screw you, October, don’t make me take an adult ed pottery class. Don’t do me like that.