Thanks for reading my musings on the weather, man. You’re the best. It’s reader(s) like you that keep me going, even when times look as bleak as the sky above. Also, regarding the problem we talked about, I think it’s best that you do something about that sooner rather than later. Leaving things as they are will only make it fester. Literally, and metaphorically. But mostly literally.
This week in last week’s weather, prose about the weather from last week, read to the tune of a Radiohead song. It doesn’t matter which one:
Rain, stop it; you’re drunk. No, I won’t listen to your ’Nam stories anymore. The Viet Cong didn’t make everyone sad this time—you did. No, I’m not Baxter. Baxter is your other grandson—the one that goes to Yale. Why don’t you ever remember me when I visit, Rain? I thought the doctor said it wouldn’t get this bad for another few months. Why do those doctors always lie? Anyway, I brought you some flowers, did ya see ’em?
No, of course not, ’cause when the hell does Rain ever care about flowers. They were calla lilies, anyway. I put them on your kitchen windowsill. But then there was no sun this week, and you never bothered to water them, so they died. I remember when I was younger, Rain. We were younger, both of us. You were more yourself then, teaching me to play in your puddles and cleaning me up when I fell. Where have those days gone? Why do we tumble into the future, never the same person we were last week? Now your visits bring nothing but reminders of days gone by and the sickening cold and damp of the present.