I'm not a superstitious man, but I've been reluctant to use the "S" word at all for fear that you-know-who will hear it. (You know, that bitch Winter.) I've kept careful rein on my smiles, and acted only mildly enthused about the recent onset of warm weather. On even the warmest day, I did not rush to a bar patio (unlike so many Torontonians, galloping like a parched slaves to a water trough), nor did I don flip-flops and shorts (I mean come on), or rashly proclaim the beginning of Summer (Spring comes first, people. Christ.). I merely cocked my head with dignity and remarked, "how mild it is, this winter day."
But having paid my deference to that bitch Goddess, that slutofawhore Winter, I must indeed announce that it is Spring. Spring, motherfucker. See this calendar? Yeah, suck it. Yeah, just like that.
I don't care that it's supposed to be cold tomorrow. And I won't care if it snows next week. All I know is, that I made it through Winter without contemplating suicide. Through sleet, through hail, through slush and snow. Lousy Smarch is three-quarters down, and taking Winter with it. The equinox has come and that fat, cankled bitch is outta here. (You may pump your fist now.)
We made it, Toronto. And sweet summer just called to say she's on her way, and do we need anything from the liquor store.
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