Ah, we've been here before, haven't we, Winter? Your brittle, icy fingers clenched around our necks as we twist the white hot blade of March deeper into your melting heart. And every time you seem to forget that resistance is futile, that we will drink your blood from a broken snowman's skull. It isinevitable. But still you persist. Why? Isn't it time you let go? Consider what a relief it will be when you remember that your seemingly interminable frozen rampage of death and despair was all just a dream, a dream you've had many times before inside a locked room. And look who has the key now, bitch.
That's right, Winter, just let go. The world (okay, New York City) has moved on! This morning's desperate bid for relevance just makes you look pathetic. Yes, yes, it feels like 6 degrees with the wind chill and you've managed to frighten the National Weather Service into issuing one of their panicked ALL CAPS WIND ADVISORIES. But we all know this is just your last dying breath, as Gothamist weather guru Joe Schumacher put it yesterday.
Schumacher is no mere meteorologist, no meretricious sensationalist pandering to the worst-case-scenario fears of the benighted masses. He is a prophet of sorts, a mystical weather oracle who can decipher all the signs and tokens in the air and earth. And when he says winter is dead, it's DEAD. In fact, he is so confident in his prognosis that he has agreed to ritually sacrifice himself should this bullshit relentless freezing shitshow not finally fuck off by next week. His noble sacrifice will be webcast live and sponsored by Red Bull—and, if necessary, more meteorologists will be asked to volunteer as tribute.
But it's not going to come to that, is it Winter? Seriously, take a hint. You're like the last lingering uninvited guest at the house party who thinks nobody's noticing as he casually drains the dregs of various leftover SOLO cups. We all SEE YOU dude and, trust us, you're going home alone. Do we need to call you a cab?
