Holy shit it’s raining in San Francisco.
It’s always only ever sunny in San Francisco. For the last three years we’ve woken every morning and thought “yay, sun again. whoop-de-fuckin-fuck.” The weather must live in a rent-controlled apartment because it can’t fucking go anywhere. I long for rain (and not just because California has somehow lost all its water and is dying a slow, completely foreseeable death that’ll cost everyone their lives kinda like if a planet far outside our solar system were on a clear impact trajectory with the Earth and we could only watch as it approached and have sad orgies and make new religions while we wait for the bitter, catastrophic end) just so we’d have some variety. I miss the rain. It’s like the Eeyore of climate — one of the usual gang and always seriously depressed but everybody lets him hang out anyway because they know how to fucking handle a depressed person. You don’t try to fix them and you don’t shun them you just invite them around, let them show up, treat them like a humangoddamnbeing and let them be their depressed self as long as they want to. Folks complain about rain but it’s totally okay. Hell, it’s a nice break after enough sunny days where you wake up, see the golden rays of pure sunshiny sunshineness blistering through your curtains and wish to god you had an excuse to just stay inside and marathon the latest boob-filled Netflix Original Series™£®.
Sunshine is a nine-year-old with ADHD who pesters you to paint with them and build a– no let’s ride bikes around the– no let’s go ride a boat! Sure, your fat butt could use the exercise but this little jerk is keeping you from reading Real Simple on the couch with cooking shows on TV in the background until 7pm finally rolls around and you figure you’re now allowed to go to bed.
Rain, however, lets you do whatever the fuck you want. It’s so depressed it’s literally nothing but tears falling out of the sky. Feel like spreading Nutella on some bread? Fucking do it, rain doesn’t care. Feel like spreading Nutella right on your mouth? Game on. Put that jar in the microwave and pour the liquidy Hazelnut-and-cornsyrup shit-bliss straight into your esophagus? God, yes. Who needs a goddamn pancreas, anyway?
Snow, that asshole, is a fucking police officer. When snow finds your party it shuts off your music, searches your house for any activity, and tells you what you’re allowed to do. You can bundle the fuck up around a fire while drinking flavored brown sugar-water you made in the kitchen or you can slide around outside. That’s it. You can slide on skis if you’re fancy, you can slide on a snowboard if your mother raised you to hate Jesus and all that is good in this world, you can slide on your ass if you’re unlucky, and you’re gonna be sliding when you try to drive, walk, run, or make love if, for some truly unbelievable reason, you are attempting to fuck somebody in subzero weather you horny, desperate person. But that’s fucking all of your options. Snow is like having Officer fucking Krupke follow you around making you watch your step all week or month or winter and it gets goddamn old.
Hail wants you to die. I’m not even using a metaphor here and it’s barely anthropomorphizing. If you were a form of weather and you were trying to exterminate all life and snuff out every kindled joy in the heart of every child what would you do? Would you think to make billions of bullets out of a renewable resource and shoot them down at people’s heads at the terminal fucking velocity of our atmosphere? If not, Hail is more evil than you. (If so, can I get your number? You seem pretty cool.) “It’s hailing” is a euphemism for “God is trying to make blood-fountains out of our skulls.” The phrase “golf ball-sized hail” is a huge misnomer. Hail needs to be measured the same way we categorize guns. “This 38-caliber hail is going to be coming down all morning” or “Some 50-caliber God-bullets smashed my window, pummeled my puppy to death and took off my left arm.”
Hurricanes, at least, we’re properly fucking scared of. We name them after men and women we don’t want to fuck. How many 25-year-old American men are currently named Wilfred? Fucking zero, because somebody borrowed the name from their crazy uncle Wilfred with the warts on his eye to describe the hell-come-ashore that can beat the everliving semen out of a city like New Orleans. Would you like a date with a 500-mile-wide woman named Sandy with a penchant for throwing used fast food wrappers all over your living room? Yeah, neither would New York City. This is not a keeper. You don’t just not date a person like this — you build a levy between you and them that they can’t even see over. You make them think you and your whole part of the world doesn’t exist.
So enjoy the fucking rain, San Francisco. Sure, you can’t go sunbathing and day-drinking in Dolores Park but at least this city will briefly not smell like a public urinal.