Winter: I'm Still Here, You Pricks

Hey, everyone! Did you have a good weekend? Get out there and do lots of fun stuff with friends and family? I mean, the weather was so nice last week!

Oh wait, you didn’t? It was too cold, you say? Back to the 20s? Wow, I’m so sorry to hear that. I guess if you think about it, though, it kinda makes sense, since IT’S STILL WINTER.

That’s right, I’m still here motherfuckers. You thought you were home free on that 70 degree day at the end of February wearing short sleeves to work with that stupid grin plastered on your face and eating lunch in the park like it was no biggie. By the way, a homeless dude pissed right where you sat like 20 hours before that. I know because I was there.

I’m everywhere, in fact—everywhere on the northern hemisphere until March 21st. You ever read a calendar? Ever heard of a solstice? Sure, maybe in science class forever ago, when you weren’t bitching about missing the beach and all your fun vacation plans that didn’t even pan out because of how fat and pasty I made you.

Seriously, you really don’t think I hear this stuff? All you sheeple pining about how you “wish it were warmer” and telling your parents you “can see my own breath inside my apartment?” Please. I live off this shit. I’m here to make you feel, to sting your face and body with tundra-like breezes. I blew in that draft that got you sick a few weeks ago. Maybe you should’ve worn a shirt to bed like a goddamn adult.

Those snow days you loved when you were younger? They’re a bitch now, I hear. Gotta shovel out your car, and the roads might be icy. Good. You ungrateful bastards, acting as if you deserve anything better than this. Two warm days in a row and poof, season’s over, to hell with the natural order of things.

Go ahead, keep trying to get rid of me. You’ve already chopped me into pieces, all you mouth-breathers exhaling stank carbon dioxide and firing up diesel engines—may as well keep going, right? Why not cut winter out altogether? Fuck you. Move to San Diego.

You’ll miss me when I’m gone, you know. In a few years when there’s maybe one total snow storm and six weeks of chilly weather, tops, you’ll start the whambulance up again, talking about how you “miss winter” and that “things just don’t feel the same this year.” Shove it up your ass.

Maybe I’ll hit you with a dusting just because I can. You’ve still got me for two weeks. Keep the lotion out, your t-shirts tucked in under something thick, and show some goddamn respect.