Why, Winter? Why do you hate us?

The cursor is flashing at me on the blank blog interface and I’m asking my three-year-old what I should write about. It seems like a good idea.

This is what he’s come up with:

There is a banana. And it’s angry. It’s angry about things. We should not eat this banana. We should wrap it in a blanket and sing it a lullaby.

Poignant. But now he’s run away and here we are again.

So, apart from raising a sensitive and hilarious individual (imprinting, am I right?), I’ve been slipping ever slowly into the doldrums of all that is winter in Wisconsin.

It’s cold. There is no sun. When there is sun, it’s generally hiding behind a set of thick clouds or reflecting blindingly off a patch of ice. Going outside hurts. The air hurts. Breathing hurts. And it’s only February which generally means we’ve got roughly four more months of this bull shit no matter what other people tell you. There’s apparently a season that is supposed to fall somewhere in the middle of Cold and Less Cold, but I’ve never been able to locate it. There’s mud and rain and mud and slop and mud and…What? What comes NEXT, Molly? The suspense is killing us!

Spoiler alert…it’s mud.

I’m an outside person, but I don’t do cold. I just don’t do it. Yes, the clothes are great. Scarves and boots and hats and mittens. And that would be fanfuckingtastic if I was at all a materialistic person. But I didn’t even own a pair of shoes until I was fifteen. My mailing address was an oak tree. My best friend was a hedgehog, and I lived off the land. I’ve actually been in conversation with Disney about making a musical version of my life. They’re going to make my boobs twice their size and cut my waist down to a 7. Inches. There’s this scene where I bend over to pick something up and I actually snap completely in half.

Everything I say in this blog is one hundred percent true.


I just want to get up and go for a run and watch the sunrise. You know, like I did that one time once on that one occasion. I want to wake up with sunbeams streaming through the curtains and tiny little bluebirds dressing me. I would give them written consent. GOD why you gotta make everything dirty?


I want to climb a mountain. Or, tag myself at one on Facebook and make false claims that I have. I just want that freedom, man. Can’t you just give me that?

Oh, look, it’s snowing again.


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