atmospheric conspiracy

All the atmospheres of this cruel little planet are conspiring to keep my mind in a bitter funk. It has been gray and cold and cloudy and windy and rainy and slushy for the last three weeks. The sun mocks me like a wood nymph, occasionally poking her sweet face out of the rushes, only to giggle and take flight as soon as I notice her presence.

It isn’t even fun bad weather. I love spring thunderstorms, with their rolling liveliness and cruel desire to strike me dead with an instant gigawatt to the foolishly upraised arm. We haven’t been getting thunderstorms, we’ve been getting shitasstorms, which is a technical meteorlogical term for the weather you get in late fall, after all the leaves have been raked and burned and Olde Homme L’Hiver can’t get up the motivation to dump snow over the whole ugly mess.

That’s the problem, here. It feels like we’re on the way out; that we should be nailing boards over the windows at the cabin and draining the septic tank. We’ve been on our way out since last November, minus a pleasant hiatus in mid-April where midriffs and grills propogated about Duluth. Having this weather now is all wrong. It does not promise the usual release from school into an hot orgy of summer. The clouds run low and fast across the hill, threatening to fall to the ground and swirl into your ears to encase your brain in a colorless fog.