This morning, you peeled open your hungover eyes to a world filled with sunshine. Tonight, you will close your drunken eyes to a cold, dark, wet world filled with frosty bullshit. But how did we get here?

The weather, like your will to live, will deteriorate as the day wears on. Your spirits and the temperature will be reasonably sunny until around 2 p.m., which is right around the time your boss will come lean over your cubicle wall and start demanding the Clemsen report. You have not started the Clemsen report. You are, in fact, not sure what the Clemsen report is. You open your desk drawer and retrieve the flask of Famous Grouse you reserve for moments like this, just as the sky darkens and the first drops begin to smatter on the pavement below.

So, OK. The Famous Grouse has worked its way through your veins, and you feel better. You set about the task of researching this "Clemsen" fellow, and what you're supposed to do with his contemptible little report. Before you know it, two hours have passed. You glance out the window—the rain has stopped! Surely after two hours of work it's time for a break, and you head downstairs for a cigarette (after one more slug of the Grouse, which you need to remember to refill, by the way). The sky is cloudy, but it's warm enough and the air smells fresh. You smile. Maybe you'll ask that woman on the 13th floor out for a drink tonight.

You linger in the office until 7 p.m., shuffling papers and pretending to look busy. The elevator woman doesn't usually clock out until later, and you want to stall until you can catch her. You give the papers one more good shuffle, and head to the elevator bay. It's...deserted. You are struck quite suddenly by a profound sense of loneliness. As you step onto the street, you see that it's raining again. You don't have an umbrella, and because you already feel particularly bad for yourself, you decide to walk the three miles home.

The rain isn't a gentle spring shower, either—it's icy, and it seems to be getting colder with each step of your now sodden feet. You pull your light, spring jacket around your shoulders, thinking about how stupid your job is and how foolish it was to think you could ever take the elevator woman out for a drink. And just when you think it can't get any worse—you realize it's snowing.

It's 8 p.m. now, and the sky is black and the icy rain-snow is showing no sign of slowing down. You see the welcoming glow of a bar ahead, and think that perhaps you'll just make a quick stop, wait this thing out, at least until the storm passes and the sun comes back.

Which it will. But not until tomorrow.