I have felt this inside of me for some time now. Boiling, bubbling, percolating. Internal pressures have built up to the point that the seals are beginning to rupture. Telltale signs of fatigue, impatience, and, yes, hatred, have worked their way to the surface. I can hold my tongue no longer. ... I am so freakin' sick of winter. Biting cold and wind, ice and snow, darkness and depression, lack of life and color. When will it just get the heck out of here and give us at least a taste of spring and warmth and flowers and sunshine and openness? You see, I was doing just fine up until about the third week of January. I even made a mental note at that time along the lines of "This isn't so bad. I can handle this. It is almost over." Then the real, harsh, bitter winter set in and has not let up. I am just flat sick of it now and it needs to go.
You know who I blame for this atrocity? This suffering? My frozen lips and fingers and soul? I'll tell you who, it is that stinking Punxatawny Phil. This is some uber-powerful rabid weasel that lives in a retirement community in Port St. Lucie, FL. Once a year, this wretched varmint roles over in his chaise-type lounge and proclaims that we have not suffered enough. Heck, let 'em suffer through another 18 weeks of ice-age conditions. Who gave this tired excuse for road kill this position? If you look on the web, you will see it was none other than Simon Cowell! I should have known. According to the Simon Cowell page on wikipedia, he represents "the heartless, thoughtless, and superficial - the flotsam and jetsam of the polluted seas of celebrity that is likely to sink without trace into toxic foam". Perhaps words like these are at the root of the problem and explain why he indirectly allows us to suffer in sub-freezing temperatures - he wants us to feel like he does inside.