I bet you think you are funny, you frosty bastards. I sure didn’t think it was funny to slip on a patch of ice that was well hidden beneath you during my run this evening. I have a bruise on my ass the size of a Perry Como 45 thanks to you. No matter how careful I was, I guess you got one past me. The worst part was the slow motion propulsion of my rotundas ass through the chilly night air as I came crashing to the ground in what felt like slow motion that I could not control. That same air that I find a constant source of brisk refreshment suddenly felt cold and mocking as paused to catch my breath before scuttling to my feet and dusting off my fanny and bruised ego. I will particularly relish devouring you and your kind with the snow blower when the time comes.
-wishing we had six months of autumn and no winter at all.