Every winter it’s the same. The days grow shorter, the city gets colder, and I’m forced to wear this absolute garbage suit of a coat. Every damn December it’s always “Hey, you look a little down. Do you have seasonal affective disorder? Are the warmer seasons the only thing keeping you from the deep depths of depression? DOES THE SUN LIGHT UP YOUR EMOTIONAL AS WELL AS PHYSICAL LIFE? HUH, DOES IT?”

No. The only thing that’s got me down is the fact I have to wear this puffy, ill fitting winter armor Columbia advertised as a coat, and I believe it’s starting to affect my mental health.

Half off, that’s how they got me, those sadness peddlers over at the outlet mall. They drew me in with their low, low prices, then watched me walk away with what is basically a traumatic childhood experience with zippers. How do they sleep at night, knowing that somewhere out there in the whipping winter winds walks a wilting man, his only defense against the elements being the feather stuffed equivalent of a messy long distance break up you’ll never forget?

And let me be clear, this has nothing to do with seasons. Winter is just another collection of days, but every time I have to wear this coat of serotonin I feel like a 15­year­ old discovering Linkin’ Park for the first time, my psyche eroding against all these unnecessary buttons.


via GIPHY

This coat is eye trash. Looking at it gives me chills, which should be the last thing a coat does. Imagine a pocket you could never even conceive of using, pressing right up against your chest, slowly killing you inside. This coat makes men of kings and me depressed. People pass me the street and tell me they’re sorry. Sorry that God didn’t destroy that coat in his last great flood. I tell them not to bother, this coat is waterproof, and together we weep on the sidewalk, our tears falling right off the near laminated exterior of this godless overwear.

So when you see me, do not pray for Spring. Do not pray for blue sky. Pray for a coat that doesn’t make me look like the Michelin Man had sex with an overly versatile mountain climber. Pray for a thick, but stylish jacket whose mesh pockets don’t remind me of our inevitable departure to the eternal nothingness. Pray. Pray that one day you’ll see me in the snow, smiling, in a coat that doesn’t look the world in the face and scream “I hate the cold and myself!”


Luke Strickler is a writer in New York City and a person everywhere else. He goes to NYU and makes comedy at Dance Father Dance.

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