I used to be OK with winter until the later winter months of February or March, but I grow tired of it earlier every year. This year I’d had enough by the second snowflake. The first snowflake inspired great merriment and I said, “Oh, look! A single snowflake is wafting down from the heavens. It is a true Christmas miracle; an angel has blessed us with her beauteous–Oh, fucking Christ, here comes another one of those asshole snowflakes. And it landed directly in my ear. That’s wonderful. I love having a snowflake in my ear. If it hadn’t landed in my ear, I think I would have probably scooped it off the ground and stuck it in there because this feels fantastic. Now I will walk around like I have scoliosis because my spine is trying to contract into itself to stay warm.”

I can’t deny that winter is a magical season. This morning while I was involved in the character-building activity of scraping ice off my car, I stepped into a giant puddle, which soaked my foot. Right, it’s perfectly cold enough for ice to form when it’s on my windshield, but when it’s on the ground water is suddenly able to remain a liquid. As long as we’re ignoring science, how about snow that bursts into flames whenever it hits flesh? How about snowflakes that turn into bees? If that happened, nobody would even question it. We are all resigned to the fact that winter can do whatever it likes in order to dick with us. People would just say, “Oh, here comes some of that bee snow. I was wondering when snow would start turning into bees. This bee snow is extremely painful. But I’m still going to live in Michigan, because I’m an idiot.”