Winter is for psychopaths.

When I was 2 years old, my mother bundled me up and took me outside through our garage to play with my 4 year old brother in the snow.  She said I walked to the open garage door and was hit by a blast of frigid air.  I turned around immediately and walked back to the other side of the garage.  I stood there while my insane brother traipsed and played and built a snow fort.  I was having none of that shit.

I fucking hate winter.

My mother is from Detroit by way of Boston.  My father is from Ohio.  These two idiots should have known better than to go to college in Minnesota.  And meet each other.  And fall in love.  And stay here.

I would take anything over this.  I'd prefer 20 feet of snow in Buffalo, NY every 3 days over negative temperatures.  I'd rather suffer through random, endless wind storms in Wyoming than sit in my car every morning for 6 months, praying for the good lord to take me.  I'd rather slog through Florida, God's Waiting Room and the armpit of America, than not be able to feel my goddamn feet.

I left twice--once for college, to New York, which is lovely, with a long, pleasant autumn, a pretty mild winter, a fragrantly delicious spring and hot, stinky sweaty summers when the city smells like the inside of someones colon.  But hey--it's New York City, it's supposed to be disgusting.  Then I packed up my little Ford Escort in 2001 and moved to Seattle, which is absolutely gorgeous...for exactly 16 days a year.  No sun.  Always rain.  Not rain like other places have but a steady, piddling mist.  Long-time Seattlites will tell you, "It doesn't always rain here.  That's a myth."  Nope, it's totally true.  And when it's sunny, they get moody because they don't have an excuse to sit in a coffee shop writing all day.  It wasn't a good time for me to be without the sun.  But you know what?  I'd deal with constantly wet socks, ruined shoes and the ever-present faint scent of mold ANY DAY over this ridiculous, brutal, unnecessary schlocka.

If it weren't for my stupid family, I would be on the next plane to San Diego and I would spread hate and gossip about the state of Minnesota like a scorned lover.  For the love of God, it should not be a test of one's respiratory system to walk from the front door to the car. 

If you tell me to "get over it", I will kill you in the face. Don't bring your happy winter ass near me, you grinning, carolling, skiing, sledding psychopath. "But Dresden, this happens every year, it's not like it's a surprise." You know what would be a surprise? My round-house kick to your shiny white teeth.