Monday, February 15, 2010

Dear Snow,

At 6:10, there is this moment where I do not know where I am. I have been sleeping on my arm and so won't move correctly, I don't know why I'm awake even though the radio is on, and I am under a small mountain of down comforter that smells like clean laundry. It's dark; I am perfect. Understand this, friend: this is perfection.

At 6:11, there is this moment where it all ends. I have to get up for school. The floor is cold. I cannot find my pants. The man on the radio is talking about the temperature outside, and I think I heard something about the low 20's.

Please, please - you do not have the power to change 6:10, it is already perfect. But 6:11 you can change. You can make 6:11 a moment of euphoria as great as 6:10. Let me roll back over and go to sleep. Let me contemplate the joys of waking up at 9:30 to a winter wonderland empty of state-sponsored doldrums. Please, please, please.

Your Loyal Friend,

P.S. Please.