At Least You're Not A Snowboarder Day!
"What do I add up to?" you ask. "I stage absurdist, site-specific dramatizations of jingoistic WWII newsreel texts with a post-feminist gender-terrorism bent." You rub your face and you rub harder and harder in hopes of scrubbing it clean off your skull until you wail into the mirror, "IN AID OF WHAT?!!!"
Cheer up, Sven. At least you're not a snowboarder.
Think about it. How would you like to spend your nights tending to the bleached tips of your dirty blonde dreadlocks? Can you imagine if you had to wear wraparound mirrored sunglasses everywhere you went? And let's not forget about that crowd of underdeveloped teens you call your friends. They can barely form a sentence of English coherent enough to get information as to which aisle the six-packs of Squirt are shelved. Plus, at least three of them are queer but don't know it yet.
Sure, you might be able to sink into a blossoming romance with the hot new children's ski instructor who stands out at the resort because she has a brown bush. But romance or no romance, snow is still fucking freezing. It's also slippery, so if you have to go barrelling down a hill full of snow every day on a piece of hardened pylon you're going to fucking die. No, really. YOU. ARE. GOING. TO. DIE.
Be happy with who you are. You get to wear winter jackets that aren't a patchwork of seven different neon colors. Now get back to work.
Happy At Least You're Not A Snowboarder Day!