Talking Story
I feel like this guy, only he seems blissfully happy. Must be the beer.

I feel like this guy, only he seems blissfully happy.
Must be the beer.

Oh my, &*(^&^@#%^!!! It’s SNOWING again.

I bought little cute sandals, capris, and tee-shirts. I got my toes painted a sunny orange-creamsicle. There’s a tube of sunscreen in my day bag and even a fold up hat. The calendar says spring—winter should be over.

But now it’s snowing big, fluffy, Christmas card flakes that are rapidly piling up outside my window. I haven’t seen more than a hint of sun in a week. Writing at my desk in shorts with the space heater on isn’t cutting it. I think the real reason so many writers commit suicide is because they can’t all live at the beach. People think the world will end in a fiery ball, but I know the truth. It will end in ice, in frozen wasteland, in snow.

Snow. Worst four-letter word ever.

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