Published in The Link 36.12 on November 10 2015
Hey, winter. Listen, I have something to tell you and it’s, uh, important.
I hate you.
No, stop. Don’t cry. See, that’s the problem. You used to be fun. You didn’t take yourself too seriously. You would throw snow around and make the city pretty and be, like, chill. Sure, by February I’d be a bit tired of you, but we’d still have the skiing and the hot chocolates and the novelty sweaters.
But now you’re getting into this El Niño stuff, and, well, you’ve changed. You’re more unpredictable. You’re colder—no, warmer—no, colder than you ever were. You come too late. You come waaaay too early. You fuck up maple syrup season, and you’re rainy. Oh god, you’re so rainy.
I can’t wear my fun scarves because you ruin them with rain. I can’t wear my sick jackets because you cover them in slush. I can’t walk on the sidewalk because you cover them in ice and then wash away all the salt that’s supposed to melt the ice. It’s just a dick move.
I can’t do it anymore, okay? Not if you’re going to be like this. If I wanted rain, I would move to Vancouver, or Myanmar. And I really don’t. So I have to ask you to either cut it out or leave. If you’re going to rain all the time, I don’t know if I can call you winter. I don’t know if I want to.