I love that dirty water

Up there in the sky, that is. The sky is one flat plate of grim pewter clouds which may become snow or may just drizzle and freeze or may just sit up there take a long gray nap. And I love it. I really do.

See, here in Ellensburg, there is plenty of sun. I've been told there are 300 days of sun a year, and while I never thought I'd say it, I sort of get sick of sun. Sun says: get out there and be ambitious. Sun says: it's warm enough to go scoop dog poop out in the back yard before we need hip boots. Sun says: shouldn't you be hiking?

Flat, shadowy, dim days like this are a whole different ball of wax. Clouds say: take a nap. Or watch a DVD at one in the afternoon. Or spend all morning making a collage and ignoring the laundry and dishes, because who cares? It's too dark to see the mess anyhow.

When I was a child, I was the proud owner of Richard Scarry's Rainy Day Book. This deluxe edition of coloring pages, puzzles and quick stories suggested (to a purist like myself, anyway) that such pleasures were to be reserved for rainy days. Long ago, I decided that clouds counted.

So give me the low, depressing, heavy days of drizzle and fog. I love 'em. I've got 300 other days to get shit done.

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