2003-01-22

It�s cold out there, boy. I mean it�s COLD. No, you�re not quite hearing me � it�s fucking, fucking, FUCKING COLD. Like, I�ve been inside for over an hour and my fingers are still tingling. It�s MINUS TWENTY-SEVEN DEGREES in Ottawa right now. That�s CELCIUS, my friends (translates to somewhere around �your nuts will fall off� Fahrenheit). With the windchill? Minus FORTY. I don�t think this sort of thing should be allowed. It�s just not reasonable. You step outside, after concealing enough of your skin to satisfy even the most rabid of religious fundamentalists, and immediately your eyes start watering, your nose starts running, and basically your whole face disintegrates into mush and then flash-freezes in a rictus of horrified disbelief.

This is that point of the year where I begin to go insane. The holidays are over, and that debonair �oh, isn�t the snow pretty� and �oh, the cold�s not so bad if you dress for it� and �oh, what a cute snowman, how fucking twee� attitude degenerates into a virulent loathing of all things wintry and wonderland-y. Walking the dog is a plodding death march accompanied by a muttered chant of �hurry the fuck up, holy fuck, holy FUCK hurry up�, and waiting for the bus leads to morbid musings about which personal extremities would be most inconvenient to have amputated. And around this time of year, I start to despise myself for talking incessantly about the weather. Why do people do this? Like somehow the stab-you-in-the-brain cold is going to become more bearable because you�re exercising your idiot face babbling about �Can you believe how cold it is holy shit it�s cold wow it�s fucking freezing out there man I hate this weather how long is this cold snap supposed to last oh no it�s NOT fucking SNOWING AGAIN I wish spring would fucking come blah snow blah cold blah blah fucking BLAH!� Shut up shut up!

Whatever dumb fuck explorer decided that this climate was fit for human habitation was a moldering pile of beaver turd.