ATM Land

Personally, when I go up to an ATM, I enter a little private ATM world. In ATMland, ATMshire, ATMia, the rest of the world disappears as I’m faced with disgusting metal buttons and dim, cracked LCD screens. It’s a fanciful place of bleeps and bloops and money money money, and it’s quite an intimate setting.

Anyway, I was in ATM land for a few minutes, plundering my account, and as I finished and stuffed my pockets with pounds and receipts, I noticed something peculiar in the air. Literally, in the air. There was a strange, solid, flaky water substance that was falling on me. It was unfamiliar. It wasn’t rain, but it was rain-like. I thought maybe a fat, wet pigeon had exploded, and I was being sprinkled with pigeon innards. But no, anyone with a modicum of common sense could tell that pigeon fluff and guts aren’t that clean, or that pure. I searched within my boundless wizdom and concluded that maybe, perhaps, this alien substance of frozen bits of water, falling from the sky, might be what the Inuit call snow. I hear they have fifty words for snow. Or maybe they have fifty words for love. I don’t know, something like that. They love snow. So do I.

It was snowing.

If you, by chance and luck, have wandered to this log of mine and do not particularly know me, I should let you know that I have resided on the California coast for the duration of my life thus far, and though I have seen snow on the ground, and even felt it, I have never been snowed on. Snowed at; it was snowing at me. For a minute, only, but it was hearty minute.