People are so mad about Winter, but they got it all wrong. Winter's not a bad guy, it's just an awkward loser. It's Spring we should blame. All this time, we've been complaining and whining about frost and snow, but Winter's just doing its job. Check the resume, and it's all there. Skills: Making People Cold Making People Miserable Making People Drink Beer Until They Forget They Are Cold And Miserable
We've gotten exactly what we should expect. But what has Spring done for us? What's its excuse? The seasons are a group project, and Spring hasn't even shown up to class. Winter's trying to pick up the pieces, but do we notice? Do we even take a second to consider the one putting in extra hours? No. We're too busy fawning over the bad boy.
It's March, dammit. How long are we supposed to wait for this neglectful douchebag? It's dance night, and Spring swore to go with us, but now it's nowhere to be seen. For weeks we've patiently holding our breath, telling ourselves that this will be the week to crack the 40 degree mark, and what have we gotten? Spring hasn't changed, hasn't even apologized. It's the first thing on our mind, and yet it hasn't even made an appearance. How many broken promises of fun and sun are we supposed to believe only to have Spring call us drunk five days late saying it can't make it? And we take it like we don't deserve better.Enough is enough. Because while Spring doesn't give us time of day, Winter's giving us everything its got: surprise vortexes, nightly snow poundings, enough broken water mains to ice over half the country. We've got a perfectly good season right in front of us. Sure, it's not the season we fantasize about, but its sweet and hardworking and reliable. It's something we could take to meet our parents. It more than makes up for Spring's neglect. If we were smarter, we'd follow our friends' advice and listen to "I Will Survive". We'd ignore Spring the next time it showed up. No matter how much it told us it'd changed, that it was a new season, we'd stay strong.
But that's not how it works. We're stuck in some crappy 90's date movie, and can't stop wanting the football captain even though he doesn't know our name. We could be dating Pauly Shore, but we're too obsessed over Encino Man. Because ultimately, it doesn't matter how hard Winter tries. The second Spring comes around, we're out that door. Even if its wasted with a half-eaten bag of Taco Bell, we're going to smile, hop on the back of the motorcycle and forget all the crap it's put us through. Pathetic.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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