How do you feel about cold weather?
Shoot me before I discuss the forecast
They ask about the weather
like it’s a holy event.
like rain personally offended them.
like the clouds filed paperwork.
“Cold enough for ya?”
No.
Shoot me.
If I ever become a man
who sincerely discusses wind chill
at a dinner party,
I authorize immediate execution.
Nearest firearm.
Center mass.
No hesitation.
Because weather talk
is the last known stage
before the soul calcifies.
You can watch it happen in real time.
A guy buys orthopedic shoes.
Starts saying “we needed this rain.”
Uses the phrase “bundle up.”
Suddenly he’s standing in a grocery store
comparing forecasts
like a frightened farmer
protecting invisible crops.
Meanwhile the planet spins
through infinite black violence,
people lose children,
go bankrupt,
cheat, relapse, pray,
fall apart in parked cars at 2AM—
and Gerald from accounting
wants to tell me
it might snow Thursday.
Beautiful.
That’s the trick, isn’t it?
Human beings inventing tiny safe noises
to keep from screaming into the void.
So yes—
I nod politely.
I participate.
I mention precipitation percentages
like a good little citizen.
But between us?
I hate cold weather.
Not philosophically.
Not poetically.
I mean physically hate it.
I hate the gray slush,
the dead trees,
the windshield scraping,
the way winter turns every parking lot
into a Soviet painting.
Cold weather feels like punishment
for surviving November.
Still—
people smile through blue lips
and call it “refreshing.”
That’s humanity for you.
Freezing to death politely
while discussing the forecast.