punk ass punxsutawney

The overgrown rat we have elevated to celebrity status has once again predicted six more weeks of winter. That little shit is even more pessimistic than I am.

I am done with this cold. You hear me northwestern hemisphere? I've had enough! I long for the time when dressing for both work and tango will no longer entail a brush with certain hypothermia. (Can we also please address the current trend of tights made of string in interesting patterns? They are not warm.)

And yet, I fall in love in the winter. I don't know why. It is as if I go down to the underworld with Persephone every year, following yet another man who belongs in such a place, leaving a trail of pomegranate seeds behind me and emerging in the Spring to a crowd of "I told you so"s and other pities, just when I'm meant to be celebrating and sowing oats and flapping ribbons in the breeze . . .

I'm not there this time, but the wistfulness is all over me. Not surrendering to my baser impulses—if love is indeed the dirty fall from grace I now think it is—makes for quite the feat. How long can she stay this strong, you ask, with the trees this barren and the air this cold? Surely a faceless, beflanneled suitor will get the better of her, in a frayed wool sweater, offering her a place by the bookcase and the fire. And won't you just click your tongue at that . . . Poor, stupid girl with a habit of making poor, stupid choices.