March is the worst month of the year.

November's pretty bad, too, when all the leaves fall off the trees in a brown lumpy mass, and sunlight becomes scarce. But November seems to be more mopey and defensively apologetic for its dullness, as if it's saying, "I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but life isn't one long party. Fine, pretend it's December already and start decorating for Christmas. See if I care!"

But March is sadistic. It says (cue Grieg), "Come out and raise your heads, little flowers! Time to wake up, Mighty Oak! Let your buds unfurl! It's safe to come back, little birdies! That's right... c'mere mommy robin... PSYCH! Snowstorm, motherfuckers!(Cue Grieg again) AhhHAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAAAHAAAA! Oh, are you cold little birdie? Too bad, so sad! AhHaHaHaaaaaaa!"

And I don't picture him with a deep, throaty, evil scientist "BwaHaHaHa" laugh, either; no, he's got a high-pitched maniacal psychopath's laugh.

You know he's laughing when you leave the house in the morning wearing your spring jacket because it's 60 degrees and sunny, only to emerge from work to find the temperature has dropped 30 degrees and you're being pelted with icy sleet.

He's a jerk.