August has muscled its way in and there’s nothing you can do about it. Get ready; there’s plenty of shit to be done.
August is a demanding sonuvabitch. August is a Monday, no two ways about it. You’ve had the weekend, and now it’s time to grind.
August points down the road toward September, and says “That’s your rest.”
August is sweaty. August is full. August is what you’ve been preparing for.
August is a playoff race – there’s no room for beginners. August just got done lifting weights and sure looks like it.
August isn’t patient, but it’s rich. Sleep later, the fun is as intense as the work in August. August is a pagan celebration of absolute movement – complete, frantic, spastic, unending, unquestioning, vital movement.
August is out of synch – too many moving parts. There’re gears grinding, missed moments and not a moment to think.
August is first grade, or freshman year. There’s no wisdom in August – you’ll sort through it all later. August is caffeinated, sleepless adventure.
August is when filing systems go to hell, when stacks stack up, the start of the hole you’ll spend the rest of the year digging out of.
August is blue collar, not decadent like September. August is experience showing the newby how it’s all done.
There’s nothing mystical or mysterious about it: August’ll kick your ass.
“August was awesome,” you’ll say when September hits, “but who the hell’s idea was that nonsense?”
August has given me more newness than anything else in a long time. August is all five sense set on high, pushing the limits. August is the price you pay and the reward at the same time.
If August were a band, it’d have four guitarists, bass, drums, keys, horns, backup singers and special guests sitting in on harmonica and pedal steel.
August really should be two months.