PART 2

Okay, so this isn't actually part 2, I've given up on that project. I'm going to say something came up, and you'll have to play along with my illusion, because that's what friends do, and we're friends, right?

Anyways, let's talk about cold.

The cold is a son of a bitch, if you forgive the anthropomorphism. It's, fuck, I can't even talk about it. It's cold, is all. You ever had a shower on a winter day when the hot water heater's broken? You ever been caught in freezing rain? You ever had to walk for an hour against the wind on a cold night? The cold kills, folks. Not a winter goes by that I don't hear some story about some poor sap frozen to death in a snowbank. It's tragic. The cold is tragic. You ever been in love with a cold hearted woman? Tragedy. Tragedy is what I'm speaking of here. The cold is a tragedy. It is tragedy. Tragedy incarnate. And when it stings the exposed pieces of your skin so you can't even make a damn phone call to your poor old mother without cursing the world for unleashing something so baseless and destructive, so fuckin' callous, as cold. You ever had that? You ever got frozen fingers from trying to do some good? It's demoralizing.
But here's the thing, I still love the son of a bitch. And it's strange, but I love the bastard when he's at his worst. On cold mornings, wrapped up warm in blankets driving a shield between me and this asshole trying to invade through any small opening it can, until my thrice-snooze-buttoned alarm goes off once again, and I have to throw myself into his damn abusive arms, that's when I love him. When I'm walking home at night, woefully underdressed, and the wind cuts through whatever ridiculous facsimile of a coat I threw on that morning when it was bright and warm, I can't help but fuckin' smiling at the cold tingles drawing daggers down my arms.
And here's why: The cold, the son of a bitch bastard asshole it may be, is but a herald to the messianic queen bitch goddess of my heart. What I'm talking about will come easily to the lips of anyone who knows me well enough to say that they know me. I'm talking about snow. Snow is the goddamned greatest thing on earth. It's my one true love. I woke up this morning to three inches of snow on the ground, when last night there was nothing but the barest, skittish hints of clouds and nothing but frozen earth beneath my feet, and yet all through the day the snow kept falling, and it kept a smile on my face even as I was trudging, truly trudging, and slipping and stumbling in wet, frozen feet, and even yet, as the bona fide to my November eyes snowstorm turned me into a human-Samsquantch, I was laughing. Because, darlings, while the snow can make it a bitch to get to class on times, the absurd beauty of it all just blows me away. And, man, snow just seems to me to be the perfect symbol of purity. Untouchable lest it's destroyed or turned hard, white as a maiden's skin in Grimm tales, completely transitory, completely terrible. If there's anywhere that literary canon is right in the frequently used and abused metaphors, it's in equating snow with virginity. And I don't know about you, man, but I'm gonna fuck the shit outta this snow.
Now, seriously, who wants to go motherfuckin' sledding?

work in progress.

There is, at this moment and at all moments between when it was built and when it'll collapse, a telephone tower outside of my apartment building.

check in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion!!!!!