I had wanted it to rain for a long time. Not consciously of course, but occassionally the idea would flit quickly before my eyes, transforming the snowly landscape into imaged dreariness. Even though rain would inidcate many unpleasant things, such as the change from white to gray, and the triumph of global climate change over central new york, I wanted it. To jump-start an archetypal rebirth? (read Jung). To cry in the rain? Perchance. I wasn't quite happy with the residue of what I had become first semester, and despite trying to change, and despite enjoying the person I had become, in social situations I was still the same, a static spaz, if you will. Why I enjoyed acting like a hypersexual ditz I had no idea, but forever, it seemed I would be an actor.
Regardless, rain would bring to me an awesome soundtrack, especially (SUNDAY MORNING by MAROON5), and that made me happy. Instead of the sun, glaring from its higher-than-thou position in the sky, with its stellar energy reflecting off snow directly into my tearing eyes, the rain, with its mist, encompassed me within a humid hug. Furthermore, the perfection of a sunny day not only angered me, it scared me. Since I was little, I had been forced to love my imperfections. Imperfect, in my world, became the perpetual protagonist. Perfect represented politicians, pretty people, straight A's, and supermodel smiles. This train of thought would be the closest I ever got to becoming a punk.
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