Angry Letters

Dear Winter,

I fucking hate you.

I fucking hate that you make everything so god damn cold. I hate that you force me to wear three pairs of sweatpants, long sleeves, and a parka twenty four hours a day for three and half months out of the year.

Raging Bitch is a polar bear, and as we share an air conditioning unit, the temperature is always her way or the I'll-eat-you-if-it’s-warmer-than-seventeen-degrees-in-here way. Last winter, my third cousin stayed over for Christmas and she tried to turn the heat on in the middle of the night. Raging Bitch attacked her, and because Cousin’s legs had succumbed to frostbite, she couldn’t run away fast enough. I woke up the next morning to find this…



Normally, Winter, people like you because it means they can sit inside, nice and warm, and watch you rape everything outside. But the people I live with don’t believe in heat.  Being in my bedroom is like being stuck inside a meat freezer. How do you expect me to study for winter finals when my all of the ink in my pens is frozen?

I have drawn a picture for you, depicting what it’s like for me at night…

Yes, I do wear a parka to bed. I also wear that headband/ear warmer contraption that I got when I was on my middle school track team.

And yes, Winter, that is snow. If Raging Bitch isn’t surrounded by snow, her heart will melt.

Winter, you make Raging Bitch more ragefully bitchy, as your icy wrath entices her meanness. Do you know what she said the other day?

“claire, did someone punch you in the side of your face? …Oh, wait. That’s just your acne…HAH.”

What a bitch!

Winter, you make my mornings horrible. I find it hard to hold onto my steering wheel on my way to school, as it is usually frozen over. It makes me want to not use my hands when I drive, but other people get mad when I do that, and they honk at me and make me feel bad:(

Lastly, Winter, I hate you because you always try to spoil Santa’s gift-giving goodness…

And you kind of scare the shit out me.

Please, go back to Canada. Canadians will like you. They like everyone.

You can go die, you piece of shit. 

Best Regards,

claire.