Winter

Winter sucks.

Fuckabunchowinter.

Think about it, and you might rationalize it away: you've a bad attitude, a lack of tolerance or sport any one of the multitude of less than admirable examples of spiritual or constitutional shortcomings.

Which are easy to have, even for the saintly, who can blessedly manage somehow to find this sort of  spicy dicey hardship somehow perversely salubrious or rudely character building.

Because in winter there is no color, save for grey, white, brown that crackles and jags and stings if you rub into it, slip over it, fall hard onto it,  at any odd or unfortunate careening angle.

When the sky is not overcast, rendering all that's above, beneath, within and without into a bone zinging shaley metallic pale, still and bemoaning the impending and too early jointly mortis worthy of an octagenarian (reminders, unto themselves and all youngers that yes, this will only grow ever worse and worse and worse as life cycles and rolls creaking and shuddering through the sadistic changing of the seasons until all stiffened frames succomb to rest finally in this cold...hard...earth, forever), when the sun manages to shine (usually during a resident high pressure system..tauted by the insideously upbeat and agitpropped weatherwonks and meteorlogical lizzies---"isn't this glorious?"), it is replete with clear, cold, brisk and brash air that brings blood to your tissue quicker than you can stuff vaseline into and around your poor reddened toward raw nostrils.

Winter sucks.

Fuckabunchowinter.

And that's during a nice dry spell.

When on-high mare's tails auger the approach of a gloom-seething low-pressure system, we're faced with the prospect of either a lucid and drizzly cascading cold--that will permeate every fabric, invade every cranny, and angle for each and every orifice. That or sleet, snow, or maybe merely that no-nonsense falling ice itself. Sometimes the shiverish rain falls like chilled water onto a sub-freezing surface, for that wonderfully vacuum sealed layer of Zamboni-ice on which not even a penguin can gain nominal purchase. Good luck there, granny.

Sometimes--most times lately, the deluge is delivered in the form...of...(big NASA-looking ski gloves on now, please) snow...flurries, dusting, 1 to 20, who in hell really knows...

...and that is something that truly challenges even the most stout-hearted and broadly-backed bubbas of our species. More on that later, apparently.

More to follow, indeed.

Winter sucks.

Fuckabunchowinter.