sweater weather.

Use the sleeves of my sweater
Let’s have an adventure

This is the kind of weather that made poetesses open out their casements, blush and write complicated metaphors for what girls usually convey with ‘dtf’ in the twenty-first century.

Its that time of the year again. When it’s raining, not the squelchy muddy messy rain, but the incessant drizzle that keeps you indoors with a warm mug of hot chocolate, snuggled up against a warmer person, preferably with your cold feet tucked under their thighs.

Its the kind of weather that makes you draw hearts on the drops of rain splattered on your window pane, bite your lip and send a sweet message asking your SO to come home early.

Its the weather of lazy comfort under blankets, for cuddling and giggling with whispered words you haven’t said in a long, long time.

Yhep. You got it.

I’m single as fuck.
Its midnight, and the air is thick with the scent of the wet earth, the rain sounds like music, and even a grumpy menopausal spinster would be ruminating about their highschool sweethearts.

And me? I’m staring at my physics book trying to figure out electromagnetic inductance while my mind enviously envisions homeless people having sex under their tarps while I’m comfortable under covers with freezing toes.

I’ve kept the windows barred, keeping away the wicked wind that will release all my horny hormones out into the world.
Its literally sex weather.
And yes, sex toys are illegal in this part of the world.
I’m beginning to understand why there are so many weddings in this season, and why those two cats were rubbing against each other so vigorously.

This is the weather for love, for poetry, and really hot sex.
And I’m a bitter unimaginative hissy shrivelled up spinster to be.

Happy sexing, neighbours. Keep it down.
And yes cats, you keep it down too.

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