An Open Letter to Evanston from the Weather

24 May

To the Dear, Sweet Residents of the Chicagoland Area:

Remember just a few days ago, when you went home for Mother’s Day? You brought back all your favorite winter pajamas, and your dad’s hand-me-down college sweatshirt, and the thick comfy leggings you wear as long johns under jeans when it’s colder than balls and don’t give a fuck.


Don’t worry. You’ve heard the saying, “If you don’t like the weather in Chicago, wait half an hour”? THAT’S CAUSE IT’S ABOUT TO GET EVEN WORSE. Just when you thought it was safe to crack open a beer on your porch and groove to Katy Perry classics again, you’re hot then you’re cold, you’re yes then you’re no, you’re indoors then you’re outdoors, you’re slacklining on the lakefill and DID YOU KNOW THAT SPRINGTIME IN CHICAGO IS MOTHER NATURE PMS-ING?

Why are you doing this, weather of Chicago? you plead. What have we done?

Oh, I’ll tell you. You fuckers.


I’m doing this because you put your extra-warm scarf in the back of your drawer. As if you have a goddamn clue what’s coming next! As if you, lowly humans, were so secure in your knowledge that it wouldn’t be FREEZING COLD TODAY. Then – ha! – last week you planned for people to guard the Rock! That’s like, practically a rain dance.

I’m doing this because you went for a late-night run on Tuesday. You looked outside, and it was clear and warm, wasn’t it? Yeah, it was. Even your sister’s Smartphone said it wasn’t going to rain for another hour. Oh, but what does Apple know? Steve Jobs is dead. Anyways, you made it how far – the lakefill? – and without any warning except the whimper you heard from the girls a few feet away I HIT YOU WITH THE BIGGEST PISSING RAINDROPS YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. I had so much pleasure watching you realize that the white t-shirt with the neon green sports bra was a poor decision.

I’m doing this because you call yourselves Wildcats. You casually toss around the word “wild” as if it referred to that cray-cray partay in the e-town last Friday night before it described REAL TOUGH NATURE. But when The Wild actually hits you, you scream like pussycats and scramble for the A/C.

Maybe you’ll spin these little mood swings as a product of climate change. Oh, I see right through you and little campaigns. You stand on the streets, with a well-practiced expression of approachable innocence, harassing passerby for their time and money to Stop Climate Change.

But I know this: you’re a little bit proud of what you’ve done. You’re amazed that squishy, hairless little monkeys could alter the weather with billions of farting cows. You like taking credit for these fluctuations in weather. It’s a special high, isn’t it? Thinking you control what I’m gonna do? Thinking you can even predict what I’m gonna do? I CAN WRECK YOUR SHIT. And this last week proves it.

I’m doing this to humble you, humans. And hey, at least you can make insipid small talk raging over how much I suck! But guess what?



Mother Fucking Nature

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