This was one of those days in the Northeastern Part of America that made you want to read some Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton, find an icy length of rope, and hang yourself over a bridge. It was so dark, cold, wet and awful that the streetlights stayed lit all day. The brown puddles of slush, skimmed with oil as viscous as maple syrup, were everywhere you could walk. It’s the kind of day so depressing that you can’t even get warm inside your own house.
I suppose it doesn’t help that your favorite basketball team lay down and died at Wake Forest; that the president of your country is an intransigent, monkey-faced, bible-thumping nimrod, and that you have septoplasty surgery to look forward to in the coming weeks.
You want a weather forecast, I’ll give you a weather forecast!