The groundhog has spoken. Six more weeks of winter. Six more weeks of bleak, frostbitten mornings and shivers wrapped in a fleece blanket. And what better way to cope with this rodent’s dark prophecy than with a fat bowl of existential denial?
It’s Groundhog Day, a day where we put our faith in a glorified squirrel to tell us what we already know: winter sucks, and it’s not going anywhere. But I refuse to accept this without a fight. I load the bong with the urgency. Maybe, just maybe, enough weed can bend time and space. Maybe, if I get high enough, I’ll wake up tomorrow, and it’ll be spring.
I take a hit. Punxsutawney Phil is on TV, surrounded by his cult of men in black top hats and long black cerimonial trench coats, their breath visible in the icy morning air. He’s held up like some ancient oracle, his beady eyes scanning the crowd, surely wondering why he hasn’t been assassinated yet. A hush falls over the congregation. The verdict drops: six more weeks. The crowd groans. I exhale a cloud of smoke in agreement.
Is there anything more absurd than trusting a rodent’s shadow for meteorological predictions?
Well, maybe me sitting here, convinced that another toke will remove me from this winter nightmare. But that’s the beauty of it, I guess. Today is a day weird traditions and ritualistic indulgence.
Bill Murray lived the same day over and over, but I? I will spend today baked, watching Groundhog Day on repeat.
Keep it weird,
