I probably should have taken a year off between high school and college. Though I was eighteen years of age, fit as a fiddle made entirely of awesome abs, and smart enough to predict the outcome of Goosebumps adventures long before reading their conclusions, I still was not ready for a move across the country. Living away from home was difficult, the coursework was intense, and the women! Brother, they were a minefield of loose manners and sordid, sordid morals; that I escaped my university the pristine, Byzantine virgin that I am today is no small miracle.
But what I was perhaps least prepared for were the East Coast's unbearable winters.
A great tree grew directly outside the window of my freshman dorm room; when the sun shone through, it cast a glorious light that gave everything a cozy glow. When the leaves started to change color, the palette of my room became fantastic. As the leaves turned yellow, the sun shining through them would paint my dorm in a warm, autumnal gold. As they turned their New England red, my room reflected that hue as well. I wanted to fill handcrafted jars with maple syrup, warm cauldrons of clam chowder for my hallmates, go to Yawkey Way and bludgeon to death someone wearing the wrong team's cap.
Daylight Savings Time
Then the leaves fell off the trees. And on that same day, the sun retreated below the horizon, gurgled and groaned, then exploded into 10,000 pieces. We did not see the sun again for four months. Instead, what we saw was a gray, vile sleet made of pure ice and hatred that wrapped its demon claws around the campus, choking the life out of anything it came in contact with. I was so distraught that I grew a tail and fangs and lost the ability to speak, communicating only through a series of irate hisses and sinking into a severe depression.
When you're born in Denver, a city that many claim is the sunniest in America, not having that sunshine tends to affect you.
The winters at school eventually got better -- or, if not the winters, then my ability to cope with them. I learned that there was a light at the end of that frozen tunnel. One day you would walk out onto the central hill of campus and the sun would suddenly be there. And the girls, too, wearing less and less clothing, revealing stunning sets of tanned shoulders and legs and elbows and skin. "Cast thee out, vile harlots!" I would have to scream while traversing campus. "You know I'm saving myself for Mary-Kate and Ashley!" (Not Mary-Kate healthy, but Mary-Kate eating disorder. I like her better skeletal.)
This winter, it was impossible not to think back to my time in Connecticut. The snow and the sleet, the missing sun, the potholes, the ice, the ennui, all of it was almost too much to bear. But I had seen it before, and I assured my friends that it would not last forever. Some of them didn't believe me. That's why, before I left for vacation in warmer climes ten days ago -- I can't reveal where, but it rhymes with "Swatemala" -- I promised them that I would go there, clench the warm weather to my virginal bosom, and bring it back here for the good people of Denver.
"I shall bring a Spring most true!" I said. "I shall be thine robin!"
Then the bouncer made me get off the bar stool.
But upon returning from Swatemala this past weekend, what did I find? Warmer weather!
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"It worked!" one of my friends cried. "Why, just today, the weather stayed in the forties!"
Not good enough. I have come from the land of shorts and sandals; the warming trend must continue.
So here's what I want you to do, Denver. At 2 a.m. this Sunday, set all of your clocks ahead one hour. I know it sounds crazy this early in the year, but trust me: I can give each day one more hour of sunshine. Sunshine that will melt the snow, sunshine that will keep us warmer long into the night, sunshine that will bronze buxom breasts and, most important, sunshine that will finally, finally kill this winter. Come Monday, because of my actions -- and my actions alone -- the long winter of our discontent will finally be over.
And how can you express your appreciation? Glad you asked. Blow jobs, and lots of them. But don't try to push it any further than that, Denver. You know I'm saving myself for the twins.