Well we’ve got our first real snow fall today. It’s been coming down pretty steadily since I got up at six. It’s coating this city with a pristine white coating, hiding all the dirtiness and momentarily quieting the rumble of the streets.
And I hate it.
I hate snow. I’m not twelve anymore. I don’t get to go sled-riding at the park. I don’t get to stay home from school, watch Duck Tales and drink hot chocolate.
I am, despite my girlfriends claims, an adult. I have to go to work in dress clothes, only to have them soaked by the nasty slush of the streets. And did I mention this? I wore a wool trench coat to the office today, which basically attracted the snow to me so that when I stepped into the office, I looked like the abominable snowman – if he wore nice dress shoes. I also have to shovel our stoop and the sidewalk when I get home from work.
Snow is not fun for me.
It does not make me laugh. It does not make me ponder the wonders of mother nature.
In fact, it seems like this is mother natures way of sticking it to me. She remembers all those times that I forgot to recycle. She remembers how when I used to smoke I’d just flick my butts wherever, never caring about the litter I was creating.
She knows that I’m an adult and I can’t do anything remotely fun when it snows, especially here in New York. So basically, every single snowflake is a tiny little “fuck you” hand delivered to me by her.
What a bitch.