Rain, Rain, Go to Hell.

And now a poem.

Rain, rain, go away.

Please come back…

…never.

You bitch.

Anyone who knows anything at all about me has no doubt about my feelings toward rain or anything close to rain or even just high humidity or fog. Aside from murder, torture, rape, child abuse and Charlie Sheen, rain is the number one most horrible thing in the world. Rain provides absolutely no benefit whatsoever to the planet other than helping to nourish crops and plants and flowers and trees and streams and rivers and thereby provide food and drinking water for millions of people and animals. All it does is ruin my fucking hair, which already takes forever to style in the morning or afternoon or whenever I get up and have to go out in public. Plus, those falling droplets just accumulate everywhere, so that my shoes get all soaked when I have to run through the Wal Mart parking lot, and then my feet are all cold and squishy, and my shoes smell like shit later, and I have to throw them out.

And don’t even get me started on how I can’t see to drive even with the wipers on HIGH sometimes because the sky has decided to take a big ol’ piss right when I need to go somewhere. Get a Depends ®. Damn. Plus, you saw what happened to Carrie Bradshaw because she just happened to be standing near a puddle when her bus came by. I know I sure as hell don’t want my nips showing like that, so fuck puddles. And buses.

Oh, and then there are the floods, people. Nice, brown sludge—or neon orange if you live in the South—in my house is not my idea of fricking fun, and more than once I’ve had to shovel thick Georgia-clay-soup out of my living room after it ruined everything I owned except for the stuff high on the walls and up in cabinets and on shelves, but nearly everything I owned, so it still sucked. 

If I were in charge, I would enact legislation forthwith declaring rain a public nuisance and a felony, and then the armed forces would have to create a big, earth-sized rain catcher—clear vinyl or something so that the sun could still shine through—so that all the rain could be funneled into a big reservoir, which would then allow humans to attach those cute little outdoor showers like they had on Gilligan’s Island and other valves that could be hooked to hoses for watering and drinking, and my hair would only get wet when I wanted it to. It would be perfect; but, as usual, I am not in charge. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why.