Listening to: The Cure, Pornography
This is November, I know. The leaves are now all brown and tattered, not the golden Hallmark cards of October but a scattershot through the breeze like flecks of dead skin from a desiccated corpse, spilling in through the doorway and littering the carpet, the dandruff of a season passed on. Whatever bits remain swirl on a wind that slices to the marrow and fills the cleft with ice, collecting into cryptograms, anagrams, put the pieces all together and it all spells “you’re screwed”. I know November is not a nice month but by God, winter’s here way too early.
I’m not ready for this, really, not ready for this at all. Call me a drunken optimist but I was hoping that summer would kind of linger well into February, throw some snowflakes into mounds that my kids could sled though and then disappear, drip down the window effortlessly without having to be scraped and slapped against studded tires. Then everything would be green again, full of life and most importantly, warm.
Living here in Colorado, I should be geared up for the season, to welcome the opportunity to slide down a hillside on pieces of wood but I’m not. And to hell with you who say, “Oh, appreciate the change of the seasons, blah dee da blah dee da blah blah blah blah.”
You’re fat, OK, I’m skinny; there’s nothing to gird me against the cold. You can take your mesomorphic fat ass and ski to hell. All winter long, all I can do is throw on the layers and wish for spring. You can stick your finger in my face and remind of what I’m missing out on but you know what?
When summer rolls around, I’ll still be skinny.