It was 4 am on a January(?) night of my freshman year, and I had been sexiled once again by my roommate. With nothing else to do, and being the flighty, restless freshman that I was, I decided to take a walk. What I saw outside made me catch my breath. It was Philly's first real snow of the year--my first ever--and it was glorious. Everything was bright and even and clean, like a thick sheet had been placed over the ground. I remember spotting a can of beer on the ground, dented in the middle and covered in snow. It was rusty and grimy and probably home to a whole family of STDs, but enshrined in its tomb of sparkling white fluff, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. There was no one else around, and for two hours I frolicked alone, dragging my feet and feeling my heart skip a beat as I realized that this foreign substance was just as soft and light and fluffy as it looked in the movies. I was stunned by its smoothness, and I wanted to ravage it. I wanted to attack every patch of snow with my flopping boots, because I knew that no matter how exuberantly I stomped about, I could never destroy all of it.
And now, a little after the sky finished shitting out our biggest snowfall since that year, the snow-covered campus still makes me ache with its loveliness, and I still feel the urge to blast out of this warm, comfy lab in Moore, into the landscape of sugar-frosted trees, and stomp and stomp until I have obliterated every porcelain inch.
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