I’m so mentally scarred; I don’t even trust breezes.
There’s nothing I hate more than wind—passive-aggressive wind.
The kind that starts to blow and instead, stops short of it.
The kind that’s too above it all to give into a gusty tantrum.
The kind that gives the silent treatment and zero warning before messing with your hair.
It stirs rage in my soul– ancient past lives shit that knows no boundaries.
Mix a prevailing southwesterly with rain and it’s a whole other string of sideways misery.
Unsurprising, really, that to rain heavily in Irish slang is ‘to lash’: to hit with force, to strike as with a whip.
It’s a straight-up dungeon kink.
Strictly for sadomasochists.
In fact, prepare for the most painful facial you never asked for.
As for gales, stormy squalls and gusts.
We get it. You’re theatrical.
Big Wind Energy.
Yada yada yada.
Just let us know when it’s safe to go outside, okay?
I’m so mentally scarred; I don’t even trust breezes.
Casual and light-hearted, they’ll lovebomb you with walks on the beach and picnics in the park before disappearing without a trace.
Holiday romances at best.
Total dicks at worst.
I’ll turn on my heel and scarper inside at the mere whisper of one.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
As I see it, anything measured on a spatial scale like speed and direction has an agenda: a getaway car, a loaded gun, an unsupervised toddler in a supermarket and wind. Wind is by far the most insidious of the cohort in that it simply wants to mess with you. All the chaos? For funsies. Once it gets bored, it moves on like nothing happened.
Fun fact: The dopamine agonists I take for Parkinson’s mean I have a 1-in-5 chance of me acquiring an impulsive control disorder like compulsive spending, hypersexuality or pathological gambling.
Given my line of work, I’m conscious of the occupational hazard; afraid I’ll wake up in a cold sweat surrounded by Brown Thomas bags and a maxed-out credit card.
Now I realise my weakness is far more likely to be anger.
Obsessive anger on account of wind.
Explain that one.
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