These are the days of the endless dancing, the true romancing

This is possibly the best time of the year to be in DC. The weather is stunning and the city reigns triumphant in its springtime majesty and splendor.

That said, I hate everything.

1) The tourists. The wintertime months of rain and frozen slush kept you away, but now you're back, your fanny packs bigger and better than ever, and arms legs and everything else akimbo just to get in my way. (We should use "akimbo" MUCH more frequently than is currently done.) The metro, the sidewalk in front of my office, the cab I wanted to hail. Great to see the seat of our nation's government, isn't it? Well, the government is big and corrupt and it doesn't care about you and your problems, so be gone with you.

2) The cherry blossoms. When are the countries of Asia going to give us something useful? Best I can tell, all we've gotten are fat lazy panda bears who, despite getting to watch porn all day long, refuse to mate and produce an heir, and cherry blossoms trees, those finicky bastards that just LOVE to blossom at any time except the stupid festival in their honor, and drive allergy sufferers haywire. Thanks for those, really. How about some free DVD players? And maybe a few hundred thousand people to drive rickshaws? I could definitely use more rickshaws. To cart all those tourists around and get them off the metro.

3) Metro sweats. Heightened by the presence of fat tourists, this lovely little inconvenience is also brought on with the onset of nice weather. I don't begrudge the warmth of the sun on my shoulders as I head off towards another day toiling under the fluorescent lights of my office, but I do begrudge the little dribble of sweat that starts to run down my back somewhere between Courthouse and Rosslyn. Come august, it's a veritable river, and I need a second shower by the time I get to work.

4) Pale gams. Metrosweats can be somewhat avoided by wearing skirts, as they promote positive air circulation. That said, skirts come with a problem of their own: my pale, pale legs. Homeless men take a break from their panhandling to laugh at me/avert their eyes lest I blind them. I hear that pale is the new black. Well that would be fantastic were it not for the fact that in addition to being pale, I'm splotchy. Of all that I could have inherited from my ancestors, fiery red hair, freckled cheeks, doe green eyes, I got splotchy pale skin. Any efforts to tan said skin increasingly result in immediate sunburning. Yeah that's right, all that damage you all have done to the Ozone layer with your aerosol hairspray (I'm looking at you, Steve-o), it all comes back to me.

5) Cupcakes. You haunt my dreams. I'm powerless to resist your charms. Today, I ate one nearly the size of my head, and have been feebly trying to stave off a diabetic coma ever since. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.