It’s been drizzling constantly over Paris these last few days, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a weatherist. I like the rain. Some of my best friends are raindrops. Well, some rain. I like big storms. I like it when the wind just bitchslaps you and shoves buckets of fist-sized blobs of water right in your face. That’s serious weather. That’s when Mother Nature gets up all in your grill and yells “GLOBAL WARM THIS, ASSHOLE !”. I love that. If there’s lightning, even better. I like a weather I want to fight.
This is not that.
This rain feels like there’s three pigeons up there pissing in an ice bucket and spraying it on me with those window cleaning thingies. Over and over and over. It doesn’t soak you, not as such. It just insinuates itself into your clothes, in your hair, on your glasses. It’s not rain that smacks you in the nuts, it’s *petty *rain. Passive/aggressive rain. Rain that leaves Post-It ™ notes on your front door, saying “PS: I’ve been dripping, I’m sorry but deal with it”.
And you know what, Nature ? Fuck that, and fuck you. It’s winter. The season of death. The cold hard fright right down to the reptilian brain. The season when my ancestors used to sacrifice their own children to calm you down and make it through. Hit me with some hailstorms from Hell or STFU, will you ? Don’t be such a pussy.
