“Dramatics are the only solace one can find in these lonesome, desolate, godforsaken Winter months.” – a fancy old-timey author, probably

Dear Diary,

It snowed today. I awoke from a deep slumber in darkness. Summer has long forsaken us. Below-freezing temperatures have us confined to the warmth and safety of the indoors and I find little relief in the knowledge that this, too, shall pass.

Gone are the days of croptop freedom. My high-waisted shorts are buried at the bottom of a drawer, and my bikini hangs listlessly on the back of my bathroom door–a pathetic reminder that I will neither wear it nor remove it from its backdoor prison, as I am tragically ill-equipped to take responsibility for my belongings in accordance with the changing seasons.

Holding a trendy hot beverage between my hands without freezing the tips of my fingers has become impossible without the aid of knitwear. I cannot do the buttons on my coat up with my mittens on. I cannot do anything with my mittens on. Each day is a fresh hell.

The possibility for an assortment of hairstyles has been demolished by the need for warmth, my jaunty autumnal chapeau usurped by the practical need to swaddle my head in heavy fabrics. Seduced by the idea of exchanging full steps for a lazy shuffling movement, I… I purchased a pair of Uggs.

Most nights I pace frantically in front of my fireplace, wary of the potential for home invasion and the risk of accidentally setting a childhood icon on fire. I must remember to keep all cookies out of arm’s reach of the flue and to yell “IT’S HAPPENING” up the chimney before stoking a fire.

Hooligans have littered the neighbourhood lawns with icy monuments to suspicious fat businessmen. These rotund guardians ogle passersby with their expressionless faces, their coal eyes a cruel reminder of the heartlessness of Winter.

My diet is mostly squash and candy canes. Morale was briefly uplifted by a piece of shortbread, a fond memory now.  If my fingers aren’t ravaged by frostbite, I shall write again tomorrow. The oil in the lamp is running low. I suppose I’ll have to turn on the overhead light, and like, put on Love Actually or something. Ugh.

Sincerely (if coldly) yours,


PS. …I can’t find one of my mittens.

PPS. All mittens henceforth shall remain on a string inside the arms of my coat.

PPPS. This is fine and I’m a grown up.