Dear Winter, Diabolical Be Thy Name—
I write to you today with my legs wrapped around the heater. It's cold as Sisqo’s career out here, and I can't deal. Enough is enough.
Hallmark and Kmart would have us believe that the frigid months between December and February comprise the most wonderful time of year, but dammit I must disagree.
Like Eminem, you, Winter, have no redeeming qualities. There is nothing sexy about frozen whiteness falling from the sky. I do not believe in cold weather or snow, as a staff, record label, [or] as a motherfucking crew. Snow angels aren't adorable. Snowmen make me stabby and I believe to my soul that initiating snowball fights should be a capital offense.
While my friends have spent the Winter skeeting in jubilation about the endless opportunities for Instagram-ready layering and obnoxiously huge death-blocking Winter Coats, I spent the Winter bemoaning the necessity of all these fucking clothes, outrunning Ashiness, and fighting Evelyn Lozadingly to keep my precious, wilting melanin aglow.
You see, Winter, I am a Tropical Nigga. I like sunshine, tank tops, Beach Drinking, and pescado frito y patacones down pon la playa con mi gente. Ya tu sabes. But none of this happens during the Winter (on the East Coast). Living in Virginia, one cannot max, relax or chill pon la playa. Every day of my life since you descended from Autum’s bootyhole has been an endless fight to keep ashiness at bay. Since I left Panama’s beautifully relentless humidity, my skin shines a little less brightlikeadiamunn each day. I am not built for Winter. This is the worst of times.
And there is never enough lotion.
Last week, after I moisturized my entire situation with luscious cocoa butter, I went to Bâtard to connect with two gorgeous ladies and sip French 75s and inhale that red snapper and that fucking amazing cavatelli with braised oxtail and parmesan cheese (¡son!) and that brown butter ice cream while struggling to contain my enthusiasm about the food and not eat like a damn savage in public. ‘Twas a beautiful night.
But before I could do any of that, I had to thug my way through a demonic blitzkrieg of shrapnel, glass, and shards of broken Ashantidreams (aka “snow”) and trudge through that awful muddly slush in the streets, trying not to slip and die. That frozen rain was the stuff that night terrors are made of, Winter. Nothing but death (and impending buttsex) will stand between me and food, but I feel, as the descendent of enslaved persons, my life shouldn’t consist of soul-murking tragedies like hearing Pit Bull’s “music” in public and thugging one’s way through demonic blitzkriegs of shrapnel, glass, and shards of broken Ashantidreams. This is not my American Dream, Winter. When shall we overcome your terror? When do you vanish Remy Shandly? When does the madness end?
Who benefits from months of arctic terror? Why hasn’t Diddy found a way to make you go away, considering his virtuosity at making folk disappear? Did the then-teenaged Koch Brothers implement you in The Land Before Time to drive humans into Wilson’s Leather? What is your actual purpose?
I say all of that to say: You must be stopped.
I don’t know which rappity rappin’ ass
I am awaiting the day when we rise up as a people to end your vicious reign. And before you scoff at my campaign to end you, know that if we can successfully keep Sarah Palin out of the control room and end Sorority Sisters, I know that sí, se puede end Winter. You just gotta die.
Bitch, I hate you,
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