I prefer seasons with grass, if that’s what you’re asking

Dear Snow,

It’s over. Seriously, I mean it this time. Get out of my life. Yes, I remember the good old days, how you were my favorite kind of weather, but that was years ago; you’re not the fun, carefree precipitation you used to be, and I’m certainly not so young anymore. The look you see on my face, when I look out the window and see you waiting outside the building, is not one of wonder, but of mounting anger. You stopped being wondrous around the time I stopped sledding. I don’t even own a sled anymore, you know that. So stop following me! God!

The other day was the last straw. What did you think you were doing, draping yourself all over my car? Who are you, Tawny Kitaen? I don’t even like Whitesnake.

Snow, it’s March now. It has been months. If you don’t get a grip and leave me alone, I will call the plow guy. Don’t think I won’t.

Not even kidding,


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