Snow.

It's beautiful and cold, like a sexy Russian spy. Also (quite unlike sexy Russian spies), it here's in abundance. There's simply way too much of it.

It's everywhere. It's on the street. It's on the roof. It's on my windowsill. It's covered my car until it looks very much like a big, white beetle (it's usually a big, blue Beetle). It makes everything look real purdy, but I don't like it. It's fine on Christmas Eve -- part of that whole wonderful holiday experience -- but it shouldn't be allowed to brighten up an otherwise beautifully grey and drab autumn.

See, I like the rain and the leaves and that whole autumn-y thing. It's romantic. It helps my writing. Which is good.

But now the city is covered in white, a giant (bad cliché alert) funeral shroud, and autumn has passed into winter. In a few days, it'll all turn to sludge, and it'll be awful, and the people who're saying "oh, snow is so much better than rain!" will have to eat their words while I gloat. Yes, gloat. I'm petty. Snow is never better than rain, unless: a) It's Christmas Eve, in which case I'll allow it, or; b) You're skiing -- but I never am, so I won't allow it. There was originally a c) but I'm tired of the funnies. Hardly surprising, is it?

The end.  ¶ 22:31