I didn't always fear winter. When I was young, I looked forward to the snow, and long icicles and the look of naked trees. I even embraced the opportunity to wear snow pants. Trudging through thick piles of powder was a luxury, not a chore, and the frosty air was bearable given the simple promise of hot chocolate and marshmallows.
But now, in the winter of my life [nice --ed.], the change of seasons is like a turning screw against my spinal cord. The cold is like being waterboarded for an entire season. And then sodomized with a icy sponge. Followed by a sack beating with ice cubes in a freezer bag.
Winter, thou art the uphill of my Sisyphean existence; it's enough to make me yearn for the instant explosion of the world's refrigerant manufacturers (innocent lives be damned), if only for the promise of unloosed CFCs and a one degree increase in average temperatures next year.But this winter, I think I'm going to play it cool -- pun intended. I resolve to no longer use winter as an excuse to be miserable for eight months, or to emotionally hibernate, or to cry myself to sleep in flannel sheets. In short, this holiday season, I'm getting laid. (Ladies?)
Fuck you, Jack Frost. (Maybe he has a sister?)
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