I know we've discussed this before, but now I know for certain: September and I are not friends. We do not text each other random things. We do not meet up for coffee. We do not send each other hilarious memes and articles on social media. Not. friends.
My proof: This morning, not eight hours into this cursed month, the carafe to my coffee maker shattered at my feet. THANKS, SEPTEMBER. Now, one could point out that the carafe slid from its plate and onto the floor because I insist on putting it in a cabinet every afternoon, only to get it back out every morning because I don't like having it out on the counter, but one is not going to. One could also posit that moving something back and forth mightn't be the best idea by such a historically clumsy person, but one is not going to do that, either.
Thankfully, I am a problem solver.
Liquid measuring cup + my thumb = makeshift coffee carafe. I have to apply constant pressure to that little black thingy because the coffee maker has some kind of "sneak a cup" feature, so if the black thing isn't being depressed, it assumes the drinker has removed the carafe because they can't wait 90 seconds for their coffee, which is a reasonable assumption, given the coffee drinkers I know.
Not an ideal situation, sure, but I still got my coffee and had the chance to feel like I was milking some kind of coffee cow- or maybe it's coffeeing some kind of caffeine cow?- along with a hearty "Take THAT, September!"
Then September made my iron levels too low and I didn't get to give blood, even though the supply for my blood type is CRITICALLY LOW. It's no longer content with making me miserable, it's risking people's lives now! WHERE WILL IT END, SEPTEMBER?
And just for anyone else who doesn't believe that bloodthirsty September is all bad, I just remembered that one of the songs on my old Fiona Apple album was called Pale September, and while I enjoy the song, Ms. Apple would be a major contender for the title of Queen and Grand Monarch of Melancholy and Depression. I rest my case.