Occasionally Gothamist receives emails from an old family friend who is known for his love of literature and scotch in styrofoam cups. Said friend possesses an incredible amount of free time and passes most of it issuing some of the best emails the world has ever seen. Gothamist can't help but share part of what she received in her inbox this morning, hot off the Web TV presses:
11. Spring, among other Seasons.
We all welcome it, like a new song, like some new song that breaks a
barrier, creates a new possiblity for song. We feel, absurdly,
refreshed, and fall into the tar-pit of optimism.
It s just another season, where things are changing, out of our
control. ( the very definition of a Season,) It s a concert.
You can forfeit the ticket price, you can boo,
you can cheer. What you can t do is get your money back. Only hard
winters and hurricanes
really hold up a mirror. Fuck the seasons.
Whatever in life can be anticipated is like a homely relative. Yes they
re coming to the party, and yes, they re bringing the same shitty
bottle of wine they brought last year.
Spring is Aunt Maudry in a hot pink mu-mu with a box of Franzia and a sequin cigarette case. Amen.