Please God, a Merry Fuckuary. (Pronounced eff-you-air-ee)

It's true, Fuckuary is almost here.
The shortest month of the year should not instill such dread.
Those 27 days from Boxing Day to January 22 are the worst.
It contains the sub-month, "Effmyluktober", December 31st to January 15th -
Everyone close to me who has died, has died in that period.
Shall we compose a Fuckuary highlight real?
Let's shall.
- Effmylucktober leads us off with 5 beautiful lives taken.
- Pre-Effmylucktober, or Whyisthishappril, is an impressive 4-0
in setting the stage for the annihilation to come (since the
innovation of the Screwlympics)
- Everyone, still delirious from the festivities, is convinced
that nothing that is happening actually sucks that bad - until the
inevitable - their life tail-spins out of control, and is consumed
by the cataclysmic inferno.

(Please, feel free to add a vague, hopefully overwritten, chronicle
of your own toilings)

The last 6 days of Fuckuary probably don't deserve their status,
but at this point, the recovery can be as painful as the event.
This is a time for writing poetry about how upset you aren't anymore,
then hiding it till Valentine's day, where, indubitably, others
will be quite torn up, and will judge your emotrocity less harshly.