Given how much I hate Michigan winters, I will refrain from hating on Michigan summers. I mean, the summers are just fine for people not wearing a 90-pound fat suit and trying to ride their bike on shadeless dirt roads under the steamy mid-morning sun.
NOT REALLY QUARANTINED DAY ____.
After Tuesday’s WEDNESDAY’S walk in the woods was ruined, I was determined not to let weather, online appointments, Pandemic-A-Go-Go 2020, or the ever-raging fire of slack that burns in my belly, prevent me from getting outside to do something. Anything.
Earlier this week, the talking weather heads predicted, nay, PROMISED warmer 40-ish degree temperatures for the mid-Mitten. They lied. I hate them.
Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t 25˚, it was in the low 40s/high 30s but with a good dose of gusting wind direct from the teat of the witch, so it felt like it was 25˚. It was your classic robbing Peter to get six and one-half dozen apples and/or oranges from one pocket to another to pay Paul to stay away from Mary (I think) scenario.
Winter is not over. That much I’m sure of; this is Michigan after all, land of May snow flurries, and June sweater wearing. However, on Sunday, we got a nice reprieve from the grey skies and the sort of snow, sort of ice, frozen ejaculate that a modern-day mid-Michigan winter spews, with some blue skies, sunshine, and improved temps.
Well, I’m glad that’s over! “That” being January. The month was long, sunless, dark, dank, gray, slushy, and boring.
It seems the beginning of 2020 has left me paralyzed with nothingness. Wait, no, that’s way too hyperbolic. Actually, I’ve just been a fleshy ball of slack and the innocent victim of uninspired connubial relations betweenst mythological weather makers.
My excuses are longer than a porn star’s manhood. My slack is stronger than a pre-castrated bull. And my waistline’s girth and body weight are that of a Mart-Cart fatty with a basket full of Ding Dongs and Mountain Dew.
I’ve never been a great writer, but enjoy writing; thus, the continued publication of this blog. Sorry?
However, in the past couple of months, my posts have become more subpar than usual. One of the major factors has been the appearance of Lola (the dog) in my life. I love her, but she’s a puppy and puppies need near constant attention lest ye have your living room shat upon and chewed to bits. Every week she gets a little better, but finding moments of peace to sit down and write can be difficult when home alone.
After a fun time in the woods on my mountain bike Sunday morning, I was hoping for more of that today. Sadly, a Memorial Day spent mulching and planting, and Tuesday morning rains and house duties had me settling for a quick hike around the Bundy Hill Preserve.
The thing about a Michigan spring is that there is no Michigan spring. Sure, it doesn’t snow as much, but steady rain and 39˚ does not make a spring, nor do sunny skies, 40˚ temps with 30 MPH winds to make it feel like it’s 25˚.
A 60˚ day of pleasure will be offered forth from the raised robes of Ma Nature on occasion, but for the most part, we just freeze our tits off nine months out of the year and roast our balls/lady bits off the other 3. I don’t know why I bother typing any of this, it is what it is, and I can do nothing but do what I do: pack on another layer of blubber, never put away my collection of flannel shirts, and buy another 12 pack of IPA to drink as I sit and wait for the brief respite of summer.
