Go home Winter, you’re drunk

Hey Winter,
I need to talk to you for a sec.  Can you step away from the karaoke playlist for a minute so we can chat?

Here’s the thing, I really don’t want to be the one to do this, but Cold Front is in the bathroom puking her guts out and no one here really wants to hear another one of your My Heart Will Go On renditions, so I’m just going to go for it.

It’s time to go home, man.

I mean, I love you.  Seriously, I do.  I think you have this charm and magical quality about you that is very endearing.  You usually bring this sort of cozy feeling to the party every year that people just want to snuggle up and relax, ya know.

But you sort of went a little overboard on the Hot Toddies and even St. Patrick’s Day – who outdrinks you every.year – is ready to close his tab.  I mean, Christmas hasn’t made eye contact with anyone for the past two months because he’s embarrassed that he’s the one that brought you.

Poor Spring has been waiting for her song to play for the past few weeks, but everytime it seemed like it was her turn you slipped the DJ another $10 bucks.  Not cool, Dude.

And seriously, no one invited Polar Vortex.  That guy is a creep and I’m pretty sure he showed up already half tanked.  I saw him hitting on both Lunar New Year and Valentines Day.  The guy will not take a hint; he needs to go.

Easter has asked repeatedly for the bartender to cut you off, but every time she does I watched that Groundhog order you another drink.  I mean, we all sort of hate him anyway, so I’m not too surprised about that.  But you, Winter, you have more class than that.

The thing is, like my Dad says, ‘there is always an idiot at the party and if you don’t know who the idiot was; it was probably you.’  Sorry to break it to you, Winter, but this year, it’s you, man.

Let’s try to salvage whatever of a graceful exit we have left here, buddy.  Give us a chance to miss you; you still have hope of being invited back with open arms again next year.

Go thank the hostess, Mother Earth, she’s over there with her Axis apologizing to Spring Equinox.  And please stop drunk texting Christmas-in-July, she’s out of your league, buddy.

Related posts:

The random perks of being a mom to littles Dear Son, I love you now put on the damn hoodie A love letter to moms of middle school boys Mend the part of the world within your reach