Hold it.  I’m not talking about basketball here. 

I’m just saying: March really makes me mad.

Dear March, 

  You are a scheming, underhanded deceiver; pretending to be spring one day, then turning around and slapping us in the face with winter the next.  How dare you turn on us, you fickle, conniving month.  March, we detest you for it.  Just when it appeared the end of the race was near, you tripped us and sent us sprawling.  Tired of snow, Me

Dear Winter,

   Can’t you take the hint that we just want you to go away?  You are the company that doesn’t know when to leave.  We try to be polite and take into account your spontaneous and reckless nature, but eventually your welcome wears out and our tolerance for you is gone.  Winter, it’s time for you to go.  Longing for spring, Me

See?  March.  Really.  Makes.  Me.  Mad.

As in angry.

And maybe a little crazy.