Tina Turner once sang,  “I can’t stand the rain / Against my window,” and I was like, “GURL, WHAT? YOU ARE INSIDE WHERE IT IS DRY. LET’S KEEP OUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT.”

I hate rain.

You know that thing when a cat is submerged into a body of water against his will, and then he comes out looking fifty pounds skinnier and like a demon who will FUCK. YOU. UP? That’s essentially me all of April, except not fifty pounds skinnier, due to the fact I have to lug fifty extra pounds of waterproof gear everywhere.

If you’ve ever been curious about whether Totes is lying about the indestructibility of their umbrellas, stand with one open in a New York City wind tunnel on a rainy day for a short experiment.

New York is the worst when it rains. Everything smells weird. You probably smell weird. Hair care and beauty routines become, I mean, like—why? Just why? The sight of sidewalk runoff water makes you want to throw up in your mouth, because that shit is a whole lot yellow-red-browner than it should be. The subway becomes its own urban wetland, only instead of marshes and alligators, we have floating Cheetos bags, Slushie cups, and suspect debris, and the strong muscle rats who weren’t washed away by Sandy. And cars are assholes; not the people driving them per se, but the cars themselves, what with the tires, and the puddles, and the splashing.

This city is miserable wet. Rain brings all the inconvenience snow does without the fluffy, beautiful, shuts everything the hell up, magic.

“But, Daniela: April showers bring May flowers.”

IT’S FUCKING NEW YORK. CONCRETE JUNGLE. EMPHASIS ON CONCRETE. I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT A FLOWER LOOKS LIKE.