I want to be the person that feels like they’re in a so-bad-that-it’s-good Christmas movie staring Christina Milian every time it snows, really, I do, but I’m not. I hate snow.
Part of my bedtime routine consists of obsessively checking the weather app, and every time I see a snowflake on the forecast I crave death. Alright, I’m being dramatic, maybe I just crave like… a three month long coma?
If it’s snowing, it means it’s cold, and I can’t tolerate anything below 70 degrees because I am weak. I know this is a me problem, but I feel like evolution could have done a better job with making me tolerate frigid temps.
Every year, without fail, Twitter erupts in girlies talking about ~New York City in the winter~ and how it’s so cute and fun! I am convinced that none of these people have ever been on the East Coast during winter, let alone in New York.
New York City in the winter means crowds of tourists at Rockefeller and around all of the outdoor markets (pre the novel corona virus of course). It mean sludgy, gray snow, that looks like a Starbucks Frappuccino™ off of the secret menu. It means wearing a minimum of 5 layers, because it’s fucking brick outside, and then melting in the subway heat. It means an alarming amount of head-to-toe black outfits, and people almost trampling you (more than usual) as they try to escape the cold.
I mean, I love New York, she’s my second home, but we have a really toxic relationship in the winter, and even though I break up with her a million times, I know I’ll always come back.
But enough about romanticizing NYC when it turns into a polar bear’s asshole, let’s talk more about my hatred for snow!
Snow is stubborn, it’s definitely a Taurus. My mother is also a Taurus and we don’t get along much, so shit’s adding up!
I also hate rain, but rain just makes a scene and then it’s gone. Snow goes on for hours and then it stays for months. Flowers will start to bloom and there’s still that one pile of icy ass, dirty ass snow in my driveway that is holding on for dear life.
I’m also going to argue that snowmen are kind of creepy. Maybe not at first, but when they start to melt?! See you in my nightmares my dude.
The concept of admiring untouched snow from my window as I put on my comfiest clothes and sip my homemade hot chocolate and read a good book and light the fireplace is just that, a concept. Instead I stare out of my window, audibly say, “absolutely not” and curl up into a ball at my desk, in an apartment that not even a space heater can save from the cold most of the time.
Snow means it’s winter, and winter means it’s not summer. I love summer, because warmth and sunshine (also it’s my birthday, I’m a Leo heehee). Ironically enough, I want to move to London even though my favorite place is the beach, but we’re not here to talk about my inconsistencies.
Let’s also talk about how dangerous snow is. The amount of core strength I have to use to stop myself from busting my ass on ice could truly give me a hernia. And I also don’t appreciate snow making me change my plans, it’s too much for my OCD to handle. It’s hard for my brain to comprehend why I shouldn’t go to my favorite vegan ice cream shop in the middle of a blizzard, even though I planned it out last week, before there was any expectation of snow.
Anyway, fuck snow.
I think I blacked out while writing this, I can’t recall anything said here, so I feel like it can’t be held against me.
Talk soon my angels, stay warm.
xx