You know how I know I am living a dismal existence at the hand of a city I have spent my life defending but am now beginning to question rather solemnly? Because last Monday, when it was 39 degrees, I practically farted glitter. No, really, my ass turned into an incredibly lucrative medical anomaly that I am pretty sure I can take on the road and make good money with. The reason I can fart glitter, though, is far more grave.
At the mere suggestion of a temperature not grazing the 10 degree mark, I become so excited that you might be forced to think I am a junior at Syracuse, readying for Spring Break in Acapulco. (I am sorry if you went to Syracuse or live in Acapulco — no judgement.) The fact of the matter is, though, 39 DEGREES DOES NOT A SPRING BREAK MAKE.
So what did I do?
I put on an orange-ish red sweater with really large trouser jeans (Charlotte very astutely pointed out that I look like Fat Albert which was the only ray of sunshine this day has offered) and a pair of white pumps that I have wanted to wear since that week of 50-degree weather in December but have not been able to wear because it has been so damn cold I am afraid that my toes will begrudgingly disengage themselves from the chunk of foot that is connected to my ankles and I might never be able to wear shoes again.
Then I wore sunglasses and did the sun equivalent of a rain dance which I suppose is actually the opposite of a rain dance but it was in reaction to a plethora of undesired snow and this guy (see below) didn’t even care:
What a difference a week makes, right? Because currently, I am knee deep in a sea of new snow, which will indubitably become the city’s largest dog piss flavored snow cone in no time and all I can think is: how is it even possible that there is any more crystalline water ice left in the dag nab clouds?
Oh, the fuckin’ dag nab clouds.