Tonight's Poet Corner: Being The Weatherman
Being The Weatherman by Belinda Roddie I just hate it when the rain gets in my nose and inside my sinuses grows a pity party where all my exes drink and sing along to sad music while I try to sleep. Same with when the sun gets caught in my hair, and every stranger on the bus stares as I try to claw the gift of gold from my angry follicles. Take it, Midas - I don't fucking want it. And now, with the winds roaring, I know that if I step outside, the gusts will incorrectly assume that I'm ready to fly, and I'm not interested in hurtling two hundred miles through the air just to land in a heap on your doorstep, while you won't give an iota of a care.