Icy winter claws on my warm little penis. I lost my gloves because I'm like a child, and nobody pinned them to my sleeves. So now whenever I come out of the cold needing to piss, I have to pull this elaborate maneuver to avoid touching my junk or else it'll freeze solid and shatter in the sink. But hey, get your dick out of the sink, right?Anyway, the maneuver involves unzipping yourself and then sort of squat-thrusting until you've breached pant. As you can imagine, It's alarming to the untrained eye, and half-chubs are par for the course. In the plus column, being able to reach even half-staff in a public bathroom makes me feel kinda proud. Which in turn makes me feel very gay.And not upstanding Whole-Foods shopper gay, gay bashing gay senator gay.So there you go... winter makes me feel bad-gay.
To segue
Winter adds at least an inch of girth to the dick-in-the-ass that is public transportation, specifically waiting for the bus. It's bad enough during the summer months, when the peasant ferry keeps me from getting hot, shallow women. In the winter, it renders me entirely unfuckable.
While I wait for the bus I smoke, and because It's cold enough to kill head-lice, I look like a junky sucking cereal though a straw.And I don't feel even slightly cool while smoking to begin with, thank you smug-fuck Truth capaign. When I see another smoker, I know that, like me, that organism is incapable of making even the most basic distinctions about what should and should not go into it's body.For some period in life, they smoked cigarette after cigarette thinking 'well, maybe this one won't feel like death clawing it's way down my throat' until they were hopelessly dependent. It's humbling really.
Not to mention the daily shakedowns if you live in a city. All smokers in Chicago have this permanent tortured hunch because they're fresh off an $8 a pack molesting. Broad shouldered working-men stop for smokes, get back in the car, and after a while their buddies go "Hey man, is something wrong?".These days when I get a fresh pack, first thing I do is give myself a little paper cut and put a drop of blood on each cigarette. Then when people ask to bum one, I say "Yeah, but you have to smoke my blood." That way it's win-win. Win-winter. Segue.
Winter is also responsible for the chunk of word vomit that comes bubbling out of me several times a day, only to be re-swallowed for further regurgitation. I feel the tickle in my throat, then suddenly I'm a helpless bystander as my own rubbery, simple face says the words--"Man, it is FREEZING out here."Yes, yes it is. It's also probably either day or night, and a bad idea to walk across the Dan Ryan Expressway, but for some reason I don't feel the need to update my present company. If you're me about an hour ago, it's also time to give that old man his hat back, cuz he's about to punch you.Depending on the state of your liver, 'It's freezing out here' can be more damaging than 'I'm so drunk'. If booze didn't keep you warm, I wouldn't be able to hold a fucking conversation.
Now, I hear folks citing snow in defense of the dark months, and for good reason, snow is wonderous. But from my apartment it's all greasy road slush for two miles in any direction, and you can only throw slushballs at people you sorta hate deep down. And cabs with the light on.The point is, winter blows and I can quit smoking any time I want too.
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