January is like the ground floor of the year's skyscraper with tinted windows. It just stands there, intimidating, because no-body knows what lies within, higher up the building.
Now, the past, I can handle, even bad bits, you can lock away into a box with no hope of parole, so you are free to play, with your past.
It's the future that scares me.
That's what I hate about January.