Okay, Pencillistas, here’s the deal.
The 73 feet of snow that fell upon Bloomington and environs as well as the string of days with slate gray skies have turned me into a miserable, cranky, venom-spitting curmudgeon.
Or, more accurately, a more miserable, cranky, venom-spitting curmudgeon.
The Loved One And I Shoveling Our Driveway
I try to keep my eye on the line that separates me from being a run of the mill annoying, whining, griping, beefing pain in everybody’s ass. The recent South Central Indiana meteorological epileptic fit has pushed me over that line.
Nothing I can see at this moment pleases me. Moreover, my vision for the rotten in life is more crystal clear than usual. Honestly, if, say, the ravishing actress Chloë Sevigny slipped me a note reading, “Oh, Big Mike, I long for you to make sweet, sweet love to me. Please meet me in my luxury penthouse suite,” I’d crumple it and mutter, Sheesh, she didn’t say a single word about there being pizza afterward, the cheapskate.
That’s All You Got?
As a result, I’m staying away from committing my bile to this page for a little bit. Dig: If you choose to enjoy the hell that is winter, that’s a matter for discussion between you and your psychiatrist. Far be it from me to kill your buzz.
I’ll meet you back here when I feel better.