Il pleuvait, il pleuvait...

Dear gods:

Thank you for answering my prayers for productivity. As you all know, something about the constant sounds of pitter patter not only keep you inside, but apparently mimic elusive brain waves into a state of hypnosis. For that, I thank you.

The thing is, now I have met my deadline and I am done. And I'd like to go out and celebrate. But now all the rain is doing is making my hair frizzy and my mascara run so that I look like a drunk homeless harlot. And dudes, you like do not even want to know how much I spend on that mop.

So please, let up on the rain. We need to see the leaves turn. Before we all write bad poetry.