Wet, sloppy pseudo-snow makes me shitful with rage.
I seethe and excrete waste-matter over those flaky, undecided drips of winter and their inability to define themselves.
Make a choice, winter.
For once in your goddamned, miserable, rotten life, figure it out and fucking stick with it.
No, don’t hurry...we’ll just sit here, wet, and decide for ourselves whether or not to bask in the glory of your little floating wisps of doily-paper, or to shake our fists at the sky to languidly combat your bullying of the sun into hibernation.
Don’t fret as to my pulsating sarcasm, please...take your motherfucking time.
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