my seasonal prerogative

The experts would probably contradict my beliefs, thus I will not consult them. Isn't that the current American way? The National Weather Service may well have records that indicate an alternate, official reality, but at the moment I know that it has rained for forty nights--let's throw in forty days--and that January saw more seventy degree days. April and May: the new March, March the new December. I don't know what became of the warming part here on this globe, but I'm a firm believer in climate change. And I am sick of being cold, sick of being wet, sick of living in Seattle without the hipness or the mountains or the world's best doughnuts (I don't care anything about coffee). While I would welcome a mighty seasonal thunderstorm to exorcise my frustrations, I have no interest in living in a cave. As much as I enjoy sitting around a fire, I want the sun! Until, of course, we hit July, it's 140 Fahrenheit, Al's nodding, "I told you so," and I drive back here to bitch about that.