My Open Letter To The Winter Season

Dear, Winter

I am writing you this letter in hopes that you answer my question—where the fuck are you?

I have lived in the great city of New York for 25 years and this has got to be the hottest season of winter that I have ever experienced. You and these summer-loving douchebags might be laughing but I don’t find this to be necessarily humorous. When I look at my calendar in December, I make sure to circle the first day of winter, not because winter is my favorite season, (fall is) but because there is nothing more beautiful than wintertime in Gotham. The sun goes down around 4 o’clock, the temperature drops a few degrees and the city lights illuminate the streets.

Did you know what happened to me the other day? Do you? I got out of work at 5:30 pm and the sun was still out. I had on a jacket and a thin hoodie…and I was sweating!!! It’s bad enough that it’s 50 degrees in February—a month that has traditionally averaged temperatures no higher than 44 degrees—but with it being 2012 you have people in the streets, social networks and whatnot, raving about the connection between the Mayan’s predictions of the world ending and a sunny, springlike day. I’d like you to know that I went to play basketball today. I only had on a t-shirt and some thin sweatpants. Some people were in shorts. I’m pretty sure if I had stayed any longer I would have seen someone with no shirt on. That’s how unorthodox this “winter” has been.

Maybe this is a cruel joke. Maybe you don’t feel appreciated by us. Could it be that all these summer lovers have made you feel ashamed of your coldhearted ways? You shouldn’t be because at least I miss you. I miss you the same way I grow to miss the spring, summer and fall. Living in New York is a privilege, not only because of its opportunities and experiences, but because very few places in the world give people a chance to truly live through all four seasons.

My precious winter, I hope to feel your numbing bitterness on my exposed skin, your bone-chilling presence as I awake in the morning and most of all, the way you playfully tease me with your gusts of wind. I long for the day that you appear again. A day where you suddenly emerge from your seclusion with, perhaps a blizzard on the city. A blizzard that drowns the city streets so deeply that it forces it to shut down. I want to see children stay home and play with your angelic gift of snowflakes because the schools are closed. I want adults to stay home from work because the office or the store is not open. I want you back on your stage.

If you don’t reply I understand. I just wanted to let you know that it’s not the same in New York without you.

Sincerely,

Mr. Minimum Wage

Photo Credit: photosshow.com

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About the author

Enrique Grijalva - Mr. Minimum Wage

My father came, my mother saw...and I conquered. I encourage children to do drugs, I buy alcohol for teenagers, and I drink beer with the homeless. In my spare time, I attend art galleries for the FREE booze, I rub elbows with modish elephants, and I hammer six-inch nails into small penises. Stuart knighted me as Broke-Ass King of New York. You've been warned.

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