The Blizzard Condition

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After receiving the phone call that work was cancelled, they were finally prepared to face the inevitable responsibility of shoveling their driveway. Gazing at the suburban fractal, they marvel at how their armpits can be so sweaty and hot while their nose is liquifying while their toes reminisce about when they had as much feeling as petrified wood. “FUCK THIS SHIT,” the person screams inside while waving good tidings to their neighbor with the snow-blower. Their driveway, which shrinks to the size of a surfboard when they have guests, now decides to follow its dreams and become the next New Jersey Turnpike. “Two extra shots in my hot chocolate tonight won’t hurt” they think as a dog pisses right next to their kids’ snowman. Now the clouds in the sky disappear and the sun beats down on everything except the snow, which works better when used a mirror to blind civilians. “Well, four extra shots never killed anyone,” they think as the head of the shovel loosened with every stroke and splinters snuggle into their sopping gloves. “Good thing I’m going to Hawaii next week” the person adds to their list of glorious moments in their life to explain how they got here. With only two exits to go, they pause momentarily at the mailbox. Something sounds like a ravenous 18-wheeler so they move quickly enough to avoid wall of brown slush spitting from the snow plow’s wheels. The person keeps shoveling, determined to finish the damn job when their face absorbs a frozen, white mass of ice. The neighborhood’s gang of 12-year-olds pump their fists until snowflakes begin, once more, to tremble out from the rippling clouds. It was only the eye of the storm.

P.S. I’m BACK after my long haitus. Das rite. Thank-you for being patient my vast multitudes of followers.

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