* and not the Bob-Ross-let's-give-our-evergreen-a-friend kind of winter, and not the weekend-in-Tahoe-powderbunnies kind of winter. I mean a winter like the mud-flavored-snowcone of a half-dead Detroit. Like three hours after the pristine white of a snowy sunrise is sullied by a single salt truck, a thousand dumptrucks, the final bladdersful of a sea of dying rodents. Life without tagalog is the snotsickles-all-day, never-enough-chapstick, sometimes-the-horses-just-don't-wake-up-Kyle kind of winter.
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