We f——- hate you.
Perhaps that was a bit indelicate, we don’t always hate you.
Just most of the time.
For instance, we don’t hate you when we’re sitting inside our house and watch you fall on the ground. You look nice and soft and pretty from the inside when we’re warm and don’t have to go anywhere. And we like being outside in you for approximately 26 minutes and thirty seconds, which is exactly how long our feeble coats and gloveless hands can stand to run around outside in you without freezing our delicate Southern parts to death. But that’s pretty much it. We don’t like you otherwise, we’d like for you to leave for many reasons, but the primary one is because you turn all of us batshit insane.
Snow turns every Southerner into 18 year old would-be sorority girls who just got rejected by their favorite sorority on the same day they got broken up with by their high school boyfriends, who just gave us a promise ring two months ago!, who suddenly got a stripper named Candi pregnant.
That kind of insane.
It makes us all a blubbering mess of insecurities and capitalizes on all of our peculiar idiocies.
Such as, you make us stand in line for hours to buy bread, milk, and bananas, the three most perishable items that any grocery store stocks. We don’t know why we do this, it’s like these foods have tractor beams that we can’t avoid, old-school Galaga video game style, you capture our brains and turn them into mush.
Speaking of mush, our snowstorms are absurd mixes of snow, ice, rain, and sleet. We dwell on the pendulous line between rain, freezing rain, sleet, ice, and actual snow. Sometimes we look up into the sky and THERE ARE ALL FIVE FALLING AT THE SAME TIME, SNOWMG, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US, SNOW, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN US?
The reason we live in the South is because we hate the cold. Unfortunately, due to certain physical laws of nature, you, snow, are inextricably connected to cold weather. Sure, we like snow in theory. It seems nice, it’s kind of exciting, but ultimately, like a Krispy Kreme donut fried chicken sandwich for three straight meals, it’s deadly. Because, here’s the deal, Southerners are somehow compelled to be drawn out into the snow like a lightning bug unto an avalanche.
Which is how we all seem to be on the road at the exact same time while you’re falling.
In fact, the only time that every Southerner is on the road at the exact same time is when it snows. Seriously, the only time. Every other time our roads, which are reasonably designed not to have every single person on them at the exact same time, work. But when snow comes, all civil order dies. It’s a Darwinian struggle, life is nasty, brutish, and short. Otherwise reasonable people all find themselves thinking, simultaneously, “THE SNOW IS GOING TO KILL ME. THE SNOW IS GOING TO KILL ME, over and over and over again.
And our moms, my God, our moms, snow, do you know what our Southern moms do to us when it snows?
You have not lived until a Southern snowstorm has hit and every mom in the South simultaneously calls her children to inquire every thirty seconds, “WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU SAFE?” The only time Southern moms aren’t calling to check on you is when their own moms, your grandmothers, call them and say, “WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU SAFE?” I would keep writing this open letter to you right now, snow, but my mom is calling me every thirty seconds and if I don’t answer this call she is going to believe that I am presently buried in your drifts and will not be found until two days from now when it is sixty degrees outside and you have long since melted and left us all behind.
STOP CALLING ME MOM! I’M GOING TO DIE OF SNOW AND YOU WILL BE THE REASON BECAUSE IF I STOP TO TALK TO YOU AFTER I ABANDON MY BURNING CAR ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD I WILL BE BURIED ALIVE.
Until, that is, we sheepishly return two days later to our cars — hopefully not lit on fire by those walking home to stay warm — wearing shirtsleeves and maybe even flip flops, and turn the ignition and think, “So maybe we all overreacted a bit when we knocked that fat guy in the head with a tire iron and stored his fat body in the drainage ditch to eat in case we got really desperate. I feel bad for his family. But his mom will know he died in the snow when he doesn’t answer his cell phone, which is currently ringing, as it has been for the past 72 hours, with his mom on the other end.
This is all your fault, snow, you frosty bastard.
Look at this man, he abandoned his fiery car and walked home in North Carolina.
LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO HIM, SNOW, YOU INSOLENT, CRUEL, ARCTIC MOTHERF——!
Also, snow, you inexplicably convince us that our children will be stranded at school overnight. Which wouldn’t be that bad because it’s basically a free babysitter, but then you also make us LOSE OUR MINDS AT THE THOUGHT OF CHILDREN BEING KEPT IN THE SAME PLACE THAT WE TAKE THEM TO EVERY DAY JUST FOR LONGER THAN NORMAL. How do you expect us to survive another minute when SNOWMG the children, think of the children in their warm schools with their abundant food and amply trained professionals and games and playgrounds, WHAT WILL BECOME OF THE CHILDREN?
Who, inevitably, by the way, always make it home.
YOU HATE CHILDREN, SNOW, YOU’RE A FROSTY PEDERAST IN DISGUISE.
Only you, snow, could make us think, “You know, maybe General Sherman wasn’t really that bad. Sure, he burned Atlanta, but at least fire is warm.”
You even make our television media crazy, snow. Even the television media who came from places where it snows all the time and they should know better. They arrive in Atlanta or Charlotte or Birmingham and suddenly two inches of snowfall is the equivalent of a snowflake-laden 9/11. THE HORROR, THE HORROR, what will my co-workers in Northern cities think when the snow falls here and eradicates an entire city, millions ceasing to breathe at the exact same time, choking to death on frozen water, because of you, snow.
SNOWMG, YOU KILLED THE CITY, YOU HEARTLESS FRIGID WRETCH.
Because of you, snow, Fred’s Beds will not be welcoming many Southerners into the warm embrace of their delectable mattresses and supportive bedframes.
BECAUSE YOU KILLED THEM ALL.
Now Fred’s Beds is going to become Fred’s Coffins.
I hope you’re happy, snow.
Because, bless your heart, we f——- hate you.