April (Snow) Showers May Bring RAGE

Today is April 16, which means that April is half over. This also means that the vernal equinox was 27 days ago; it has been “Spring” for nearly a month. When I awoke this morning, it was 30°F, windy, and there was an 1/8″ of ice encrusting everything.

Two additional tidbits that send this from Annoying to Supremely Enraging:

1. Two days ago it was 75° and humid. Like, underwear soup levels of stickiness. (This, too, was horse crap for April.)
2. I left my car outside overnight for the first time in 6 months. Why? I have no fucking idea. Because I love taunting cosmic irony, I guess.

Natural phenomena are in a special class of rage inducement. Almost every other woe in life can be blamed on another shitty human being on which vengeance may be imposed. Being angry about the weather is completely irrational, and there’s no recourse. I know this. The same can be said about many of life’s unpleasantries. But the worst part about being upset by weather is that there’s no one at which to sensibly aim my skull-splitting rage. I can’t do anything directly about the transgressions of politicians or corporate criminals or foreign dictators either, but at least a fire is stoked in my belly by imagining Ted Cruz, Jamie Dimon, and Bashar al-Assad arranged in a configuration such that the prodigious suckholes at their opposing ends fuse the three together and spin them with such a near-infinite acceleration that the centrifugal force rips them to ribbons, and the resulting explosion creates a vacuum that rends open an ingress to Oblivion into which most of the American Deep South is slurped. (It wouldn’t be a long trip.)

A semi-logical jump may be to lash out at “meteorologists” (weather-guessing putzes). They are certainly worthy of disdain, but for their incompetence and equivocating, not for actually causing the shitstorms they couldn’t see coming just a few hours prior. No, I regard forecasts from that bunch of imbeciles as I would the prognostications of any other species of chimpanzees grinding their privates on a green screen.

Nor will I create some imaginary omnipotent being to receive my ire. “Damn you, Atmospheric Overlord!” That’s pathetic and a waste of good rage.

So, I’m stuck. I will not not get angry when the weather bites. Fuck no. That que sera, sera bullshit is for hippies and feckless jerks. Not to get all positive-attitude about this, but perhaps what I am meant to do is accept the weather as a selfless giver of roiling fury. Every other cause for such intensity demands that some/most/all of it be returned like a sewage-soaked tennis ball batted onto my side of the court. Weather, though, bestows upon me free-range rage that can be harnessed and redirected at anyone I see fit.

Rage is fuel, and the Atmospheric Overlord can be the creepy gas station attendant that fills me up so that I may continue my interminable trek down this highway of misery, thwacking dumbasses with my car door as I sail past.

Fuck you, weather. Thank you, weather.