Hear me out, Northern Hemisphere. I like orange leaves and butchered pumpkins as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is an asshole, in which case I like aforementioned things more) but I’ve just about had it with this season. It starts out pleasantly enough, with medium-length days and light jacket-friendly weather, but I am of the belief that Mother Nature should get back to what she does best: being a harsh and brutal mistress. I don’t need to be coddled by the seasons, and I sure as hell don’t need a season that gives people more excuses to buy a fifth fleece pullover in a muted color.
What I need is weather that means business, and days where the sun clocks out at half past three. I want to be constantly reminded that going outside is a bad idea, and that there are forces in this universe that despise comfort and contentedness as much as I do. Let’s hear it for Old Man Winter.
In addition to curbing the distressingly high rates of smiling and public displays of affection, the cold gray hand of winter also plays an important role in the urban ecosystem: controlling the homeless population. Much like the lion of the Serengeti Plain, winter cuts down the slowest and the weakest of the nation’s hobos. Those that survive are hardened, exhibiting fewer symptoms of schizophrenia and hassling me for nickels with less desperation. It’s like Nietzsche said, “that which does not kill me will hopefully take a few homeless people down.” The man had Ideas, people.
Despite the fact that it’s officially November, a month known for its high rates of both slaughtered turkeys and new cases of diabetes in children under twelve (two things that make me smile), my heart is heavy with the knowledge that it will be weeks yet before the trees are bare and the earth is as hard as the concrete I wish covered every square inch of it. I will persevere though, I will always hate this season.
What I need is weather that means business, and days where the sun clocks out at half past three. I want to be constantly reminded that going outside is a bad idea, and that there are forces in this universe that despise comfort and contentedness as much as I do. Let’s hear it for Old Man Winter.
In addition to curbing the distressingly high rates of smiling and public displays of affection, the cold gray hand of winter also plays an important role in the urban ecosystem: controlling the homeless population. Much like the lion of the Serengeti Plain, winter cuts down the slowest and the weakest of the nation’s hobos. Those that survive are hardened, exhibiting fewer symptoms of schizophrenia and hassling me for nickels with less desperation. It’s like Nietzsche said, “that which does not kill me will hopefully take a few homeless people down.” The man had Ideas, people.
Despite the fact that it’s officially November, a month known for its high rates of both slaughtered turkeys and new cases of diabetes in children under twelve (two things that make me smile), my heart is heavy with the knowledge that it will be weeks yet before the trees are bare and the earth is as hard as the concrete I wish covered every square inch of it. I will persevere though, I will always hate this season.
No comments:
Post a Comment