Dear Winter,

It's mid-March now, and I've noticed that, well, you're still around. I was going to say something earlier, but last week it appeared you finally conceded the floor to Spring. But this morning I awoke to snow. I did my best to convince myself that it was simply lovely white petals from flowering trees adrift on the warm breeze, but my frozen ears and nose forced me to face the truth. It's time for an intervention.

Seriously, Winter. You need to give it up. It's over. Accept it, let Spring do her job. You proved your point, you drove me to the point of near-insanity, but after last week's 60-degree temps, now you just look sad and pathetic. You realize that all the other seasons are laughing at you, right? I mean, seriously. It's MARCH. You've become the Gary Busey of the weather world. Do you really want to end up selling prayers to the desperate on the Nominal Christian Channel? Pack it up, go to the Southern Hemisphere for the next six months and GET OUT OF MY LIFE ALREADY.

You suck and I hate you,
C.

A reading from the Letter of St. Paul to the Americans:

"Yea, and I say unto you: Ware! Ware, ye denizens of the warm lands to the South! Steel thyselves against the siren song of Madison, the duplicitous seductress of the Northern wastelands. Many men have ventured there and many men there also have met their doom. She will lure thee in with well-spun tales of lovely winters, quality public education and a vibrant city life. But take heed! No sooner will thy enter her gates when she will snap them shut like the jaws of a jackal, unleashing the demons of winter. O, she will play thee false, this frozen Jezebel disguised as maiden! Too late will her treachery be revealed, for the winter is long and arduous and as cold and dead as the heart of Ann Coulter. Madison may ply thee with a day of sun and warmer temperatures, but this is the true cruelty! Verily, there are only weeks of snow and gray before thee. Woe betide those who find themselves ensared in Madison's unholy trap, for the demons feast on their wills to live, rendering them unable to nought but lay prone on chaise or bed, awash in the glow of the pixelated entertainment that dances before their glazéd eyes.

Therefore I beseech thee: turn back! Turn back if thy valuest thy soul! Turn back while thou still has life in thee! For those who have fallen to the wicked city, we may only pray, pray for the salvation of their curséd souls! Pray, and send care packages stocked with Girl Scout cookies. For yea, I say to thee, it is that time again."


WWTL: Orange.
Temperature: 25 degrees. Still. Like it will be tomorrow. In March. Sigh.