Hey, You Dick

Look, don’t tell me how fucking cold it is outside. I’m a grown man – I watch the news. I listen to every pregnant weatherwoman tell us it’s colder than your bitterest ex. I bundle up and go out – I feel how obscenely cold it is. I don’t need 132 people to post pictures of the temperature on their apps, their dashboards in their strugglemobiles.

Maybe I’m indifferent to the whole shit being that I’ve lived here my whole life. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure, two things for certain – Mother Nature fucking despises the good residents of the northeast between November and March. Mother Nature is the moodiest, most bipolar bitch I hopefully ever encounter. She’s unrepentantly impartial, she forces females to wear UGGs, and compels me to throw caution to the wind and get a snowsuit. Real shit, I’m contemplating getting the same type of snowsuits that made it tough for us to stand up when we were kids. New shit.

The thing I still struggle to understand, as referenced last winter, is WHY people (more often than not those of the Caucasian persuasion) wanna go for runs in Downtown Boston, the coldest fucking area I’ve ever set ten toes in, dressed in a Columbia jacket, beanie, hoodie, scarf, and thigh-exposing shorts. The fuck? I dunno about the rest of you, but I’m not content with contributing to frostbite because of negligent fuckery. That and the fact my skin turns seethrough in the cold. So there’s that.

We get it – it’s cold. Freezing even. Do the world a favor and refrain from playing Jr. Meteorologist when the mercury’s laying low, please. Same goes for the opposite – the summer’s a time to enjoy the heat, the beach, life. I don’t give a slanted sliver of a fuck about your dirty dashboard temp gauge, you bastard. I got my own shit to look at.


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