It’s 57 degrees out there. Lovely, spring-like. I’m holding my breath, half expecting that white crap to dump on us from the sky. Not from the birdies; from the clouds. Not that there are any clouds at the moment, but still. Clouds creep in, silently and BAM! drop a foot or two of sn*w. You can almost hear the clouds snickering as they do it, too! How rude!
Me — Happy place, o happy place, where art thou, happy place?
Happy place — Still hanging out at the IRS location in Kansas City, you foolish woman!