Car buried in snow

dear winter, you suck

Dear Winter,

I can’t do this anymore. I want to, I really do, but I don’t feel like you give me anything in this relationship (except an excuse to eat fondue and mild Seasonal Affective Disorder). We’ve been together for a long time, it’s true, but you haven’t changed. You keep me away from my friends with icy roads, force me to watch bad movies when it’s -10 out and there is literally nothing else to do, and you’re a straight up asshole when you knock my power out.

I’d love to make it work, but I just can’t. I need chemistry, I need attraction. You used to look so good—bright, shimmering snow coating tree branches and delicate icicles hanging from front porches. Now? Piles of dirty ice lumps and slushy brown puddles. I can’t even look at you anymore.

I don’t want dry skin and brittle hair; I want a perfect tan and subtle highlights from the sun. I didn’t sign up for a two-hour commute when it snows; I’d rather peace out of work early and head to the beach. And I just cannot do any more days of biting winds, cloudy gray skies, and bone-chilling sleet. YOU CALL THAT ROMANCE?

I know I’m a lifelong New England girl and I should appreciate everything you have to offer: cozy nights in, weekend ski trips, and the chance to wear cute turtlenecks and L.L. bean boots. Yea, that stuff is nice, but so are summer nights under the stars, weekends at the lake, and sundresses with flip-flops. You refuse to give me any of that, Winter, and I deserve it all.

Stop trying to woo me with warm fires, afternoons ice skating, and spiked hot chocolate. Mmmm, hot chocolate. That fresh coating of fluffy snow won’t change my mind. I’ll build one snowman, but THAT’S IT. I’m leaving.

Next year.

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