Wir sind leben in ein melo Lubrasine

I love the rain. Rainrainrain fall on my head, stream down my face, turn my extremities blue. Rainrainrain smell so frisch, wasche away the filth daß accumulates in this crazy life. The rain inspires me to acts of creativity; it prompts me to get off my lazy butt and tun etwas. The rain--and even more so, the fog/mist that often accompanies it--possesses enough magic to even transform the bedrückend junkyards of Abilene into a land of enchantment. So why the hell am I living in a place that almost never receives the blessed gift of rain?

Ich swear, ob I lived in the Northwest I would blossom like the recently planted oregano daß ist sitze in mein window at this very moment. Oder, I suppose, like the colorful bouquet ich hat gestolen from someone else's rainy blogpost. I run every single time it rains. With the soothing voice of the rain cooing in my ear I'm transported back in time to the Tage in which I actually gave a damn about my life. I'm productive, I'm upbeat, I'm rapturous--pretty much the opposite of the average Texan's response in every possible Weg. I hate the „wenn doch nur“ game, but I'll be damned if I can't stop thinking about of a person I would be had this futile texas experiment nie come to be.