OK, winter.

That'll do.


But do you not take a hint?



Every time I turn to the weather lately, a little something in me dies. This isn't even perpetual winter, but I now understand why those people on "Game of Thrones" are in such foul moods all the time. How did Narnia survive this?


Stop snowing.

Snow is like a manic pixie dream girl: fun and whimsical when you encounter it only through the barrier of a movie screen -- but absolute misery to have to put up with in real life.

Even complaining about the weather loses its cachet after several months.

"This is abominable snow, man."

"You say that every day."

"I mean it every day."

(A tense silence ensues.)

"We need to get out of this house."

"I know."

How many stories do you know about people cooped up in places because of deep snowfall? How many stories where something good happens to those people? The first draft of this piece consisted entirely of the words "All work and snow play makes Jack a dull boy" typed over and over again.

It used to be picturesque. When we started this thing together, all your little quirks seemed cute. The way you froze the puddles and prompted everyone to wear scarves and skip school. It was endearing. "I hate summer," I agreed. "Summer is clearly inferior to winter. Winter is tights season. Winter is the season of lights and holidays, when Scandinavians feel most at home."






Even more so because this is the part of the East Coast where "winter" means "an inch of snow, tops -- anything more and we'll coin a new term that ends in -mageddon or -pocalypse."


Just make it stop.