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It has been the kind of headache that lives behind my right eye, present whether I block out the world or not, whether I distract myself with music or think about vast plains of nothing. It’s a throbber, a bruiser, a meathead of a headache; any minute now it will smash an empty beer can against itself and roar.

It has been the kind of day when the shower curtain rod falls and I think I might as well throw the curtain in the laundry, that and the bath mat and then forget all about grand housekeeping plans in exchange for an apple.

It was the kind of apple that makes me grateful for everything that brought me to this moment, genetics and bad choices and triple salchows and a stack of plastic 3.5 floppies falling to the floor.

It was the kind of snow that pirouettes and curtsies, that shows me why some people actually like it. It lay on tree branches delicately, half an inch high, and stayed off the sidewalks and roads, an obedient and well-behaved snow, only there for effect. It glazed the abandoned bicycle and the rubber swingset seats. It looked like cheap art at three-thirty in the afternoon, like things that don’t happen in real life.

The bicycle used to rest up against that tree, but entropy took over like it always does. I was hoping to measure the snow this year by its height. But there are other ways to measure snow, and time, and gratitude and apples. You make your own piles and rankings and there are always bits left over, one last screw with nowhere to drive it. You’re either the kind of person who can throw that screw away, or the kind of person who can’t.