Another snowstorm is coming. Again. The weathermen are in full doomsday mode, waving their arms like wacky inflatable tube men, while the town collectively hold their breath as if we haven’t seen frozen water before.

Out in the trees, the squirrels are stuffing their faces like they’ve just been told hibernation starts in an hour. A raccoon waddles across the yard, looking thoroughly unimpressed—probably because winter doesn’t affect trash cans. The stray cats have disappeared, likely plotting to overthrow humanity from the warmth of someone’s porch. And my lil dog, my tiny fur-covered buddy, is staring at the sky like he’s expecting divine intervention.

Meanwhile, the people—oh, the people—have had enough. We just endured a lovely cocktail of snow, freezing rain, and wind that could peel paint off a barn. We’re done. We’re finished. We want spring, sunshine, and a world where walking outside doesn’t feel like stepping into an ice bath. Instead, we get… more snow. Again.

By tomorrow, the storm will hit, chaos will unfold, and then—just as we’re about to resign ourselves to a life in the Arctic—it’ll all melt. And we’ll be right back to dodging potholes and pretending this is normal.