This Winter

I hate this winter.

I hate the endlessly cloudy days where the sky feels like one giant sheet of wet white paper, the kind of material that your ball point pen would become useless in if you tried to write “fuck you”.

I hate the cold wind. The wind that cuts into every corner of your body and tickles sensitive spots like a bully trying to break a small child. No, you can’t turn a corner and avoid it because it’s cousin, the wind on 23rd Ave, was waiting to punch you in the face.

I hate the noises of winter. No birds. No leaves rustling. Only the sounds of the endless fire trucks, the screech of the distant trains now heard due to the wind and a lack of foliage. I miss the sounds of the children playing in the recess yard! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I do!

I hate the smell of winter, the rot of used cigarette butts exposing their soggy selves after the icy remnants of the several blizzards finally evaporate (not melt, for this particular winter has seen very little opportunity for melting). I hate the smell of the frozen garbage, the piss, the exhaust, the metallic wisps from the iron air long since deprived of any sweet smell of fresh growth.

I hate sickness, which seems to weave its long twisted fingers into my very chest and squeeze my bones until I cry. This person is sick and that person is sicker and this person is so sick we won’t know just how bad until later. Everyone talks about a death in winter, where are the marriages? Babies?

I hate the lack of motivation. The desperate need to push myself out of bed each morning and tell myself I’m one day closer to warmer days. Keep trudging through the slush, keep marching through March, keep checking the weather report… and all I want to do is lie on my couch in underwear 4 days old and drink hot tea and watch reruns of a show I’ve already seen or a documentary I haven’t in order to avoid doing anything “productive”.

This is my official Fuck You, Winter letter.

Fuck you, Winter.


March 7, 2014 at 8:47 pm by Natalie Allen