Desperately Seeking Spring

So I paid $65,000 to learn how to write beautiful works of literary glory. That's what I envisioned for myself-- hardcover novels published with beautiful photography on the jacket, movie deals, whatever. Someday I hope to get there. It's raining and I'm feeling meloncholy. Now would be an ideal time to write about my stupid ex-whatevers, heartwrenching stories of loss and woe, but instead I am going to complain about the weather.
Seriously. I am a Leo. We are ruled by the sun. Even though I'm fair-skinned I worship the sun whenever possible. I'm probably going to look like a leather bag by the time I'm thirty-five, if the sun ever comes out again. But the sun is hiding and will not come out. I leave my sunglasses at home, hoping that the cosmic forces that work against me will decide to allow the sun out. I squint so that you may sunbathe. These tricks haven't worked and I'm at the end of my very frayed wits.
I don't curse the weatherman (well, not the cute one) but when I see clouds and rain on the weekly forecast it makes it difficult to handle the "aw shucks, weather is complete ass again this weekend" mentality. The sunlight is faint in the morning and it's so easy to just close my eyes and wiggle myself deeper into the sheets, work the pre-shower gravel in my voice and tell my boss I'm sick and stay home and watch Ellen. I like to walk through the park during lunch, but it's been so cold the people watching is poor and I just shiver the entire time. Near-erotic fantasies of sand between my toes and the sun on my shoulders torment me. All I want is a trip to Rhode Island, an order of clamcakes and chowder from Aunt Carries and the pleasant sting of a small sunburn. Instead, I have summer hours at work without the summer to enjoy and a Memorial Day weekend that looks like I'm going to be catching up on my museum visting. Or the continuing systematic destruction of my liver.
All we can do is hope that the pressure system that's on top of us (per Pete Bouchard) will move and get out of this wet and cool pattern. Otherwise I'm going to start looking for real estate in warmer climes. Or stop responding to my bosses when they ask me to do something, but wear the shag that is the internet down to the hardwood between all the websites I visit. Malaise, thy name is cloudy with showers, highs in the 50s.