Hear me out, I’m a Michigander, which means I’m contractually obligated to pretend I enjoy shivering in the mud, but between us? February in this state is a personal insult.
I feel the crushing guilt of a native who should find “beauty” in the slush, but frankly, I’d rather find a stiff drink and a heavy door to shut against the wind.
That’s how I ended up in here, seeking asylum in a century-old institution that understands that true warmth comes from wood paneling and patient roasting, not a North Face parka…