I Quit

I give up. It’s only been six days of winter, but between the snow and the cold (bitter or brutal depending on what station you’re watching) and the snow-covered roads and the spinning tires and the frosted windows and the dry skin and the dry nose and the chapped hands and lips and the foggy glasses and the nitwit meteorologists who have to go outside to give us the forecast and then tell us how cold it is and the. . . and the . . . and. . . I can’t go on anymore. I quit. Six days and I bow to you. You win, winter.

Ice on a branch. A very cold branch. A very cold branch who also quits.

Are you happy, winter, now that you got what you wanted? Now will you please moderate or something and bring back some normal temperatures and dewpoints you bastard?