Brother Snowflake, I want to whup your faux ethereal butt. I don't care if it is December in Minnesota and high time we got some snow on the ground: I despise your shiny. glinting. bright, cold, wet self. The world thinks you're lovely, but I know who you truly are. My back stings from your weight, and your cute geometric shapes slap my frostbitten face like spit.
If would be one thing if you kept your frozen self outside, but no, Brother Snowflake, you attach yourself to every boot/snowpant/scarf/glove and track your melting waste into my home like an invasion of bedbugs. You're everywhere, and your not even cute any more. You quickly transform into your true self, freezing cold water. Water I sit in. Water I step in. Water that makes my living room rug feel like a half frozen sponge. You sneer at me, Brother Snowflake. You lie on my home's surfaces and utter a chilling, demented, silent laugh.
No one understands that taming Brother Gubbio the Wolf was a snap compared to quelling your insidious bone chilling mist. You not only freeze the very borders of my soul, Brother Snowflake, you tempt me to vice. Those six cookies I ate didn't make the never ending falling snow cease, nor did they even taste good by the fifth. And those grown men zippily put-put-puttering their snowblowers come out to do their sidewalks as soon as I head out the door with my shovel, just to mock me. I know it. I see it in their %^&* twinkling eyes.
I just want to say, till me meet again in a few hours--even St. Francis didn't include you in his prayer. And he included Death, you know. Think about that, you future ice-encrusted Snowball.