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Rated: E · Letter/Memo · Personal · #2155031
Just a brief letter in which I release / vent my frustrations with winter.
         Dear Winter,                                                                                              
         Oh, come on! You sir are a malingerer. Why are you still here? Have you not heard the invectives, turning the air blue, hurled your way?
         Months of red dripping noses, tearing eyes, chapped lips, frost-bitten toes, too tight toques, itchy scratchy scarves, and heavy parkas have vexed the populous to their breaking point. They plan to push back. You should be quaking in your snowshoes. Frustration fed by the perspiration and overworked muscles of scraping snow, brushing snow, relocating snow, and piling snow can be frightening.
         You have overstayed your welcome. The mat disappeared several storms ago. Open doors sealed tight. Even winter enthusiasts now give you the cold shoulder. The wonder of winter collapsed, and we wish the same fate for your towering snow banks.
         You delay your departure. Why, cold feet? Why this reluctance to slip away?
         I must stamp my boot-weary feet in both protest and a very real need to stimulate my circulation. Enough pussy-footing around, you are on thin ice Winter.
         Thanks to you, I now carry a little extra weight / padding / insulation that I'd like to shed. Once I shave my lower extremities, I estimate I will tip the scales a good twenty pounds lighter.
         You leached all the colour from my skin, except for the patchwork of purple/green bruises etched in too many tumbles. My pasty white complexion yearns for the caress of the sun, not the sting of sleet.
         Memories of my neighbours' faces float obscured by swirling snowflakes and thick layers of mufflers. If we venture outside, only our squinting eyes may meet. Scowls, or smiles remain hidden. Brief conversations ensue. I hear, "it sure is cold", or "my house just sold." Maybe I'll hear, " I'm freezing", or " I'm leaving." Did someone mention, "I wish I was in Cuba", or " I wish I played the tuba"? The aptly named muffler guarantees garbled words and context. We swing and slap our numb arms. We stomp our frozen feet. We shake. Our dislike of you, Winter, unites us.
         I mean it Winter, it's time for you to leave. Pack up your howling winds, your white-out snow, your glare ice, and your frigid temperatures. All that glistens certainly is not gold.
         The poor naked trees need to stop shivering. Grass and flowers smother under this oppressive blanket. Can't you hear the grumbling stomachs of hibernating bears? You risk the wrath of rodents everywhere. Groundhogs, who possess a Spring-forecasting reputation, poked their quivering noses out from lairs more than six weeks ago.
          This serves as a cease and desist missive. Winter, you have been evicted.      (433 words)
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