I have a lot of opinions. Usually, they’re really hard stances on some honestly pretty irrelevant things, but a lot of these opinions are so essential to my sense of self that if you, for example, don’t know that I hate pineapples with nearly every ounce of my being, I question if we’re really friends. Look, I complain about these things a lot. It’s kind of impossible to spend any amount of time with me and not know about my very specific longstanding hatreds.
And one of these longstanding hatreds? Winter — the longest season of the year. (You can say it doesn’t start until the winter solstice but you would be wrong.)
There’s no two ways about it: winter is the worst. It’s terrible. The only irredeemable season. I hate being cold, it’s dark all the time, driving in the snow is terrifying, and my chronically-running-behind ass can’t stand budgeting time to scrape my car windows. Also, your chances of getting sick in the winter? Significantly higher. One November, I got sick three separate times. It’s impossible to make it out of winter unscathed by at least one nasty cold. Or, at the very least, an imaginary one, if you’re a known hypochondriac like I am.
My main point being this: if winter is your favourite season, you’re dead to me. Yes, mom, that includes you.
Image: Simer Haer/The Cascade