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Let's talk about snowmen for a moment. These guys have some serious body image issues. I mean, who decided that three round spheres stacked on top of each other was the universal standard for snowman beauty? Every time I build a snowman, I can feel it judging me. It's like, "Really? Is this the best you can do? Three spheres? Have you seen Frosty's abs? Now that's a snowman with some core strength!"
And then there's the pressure to accessorize. A carrot for a nose, coal for eyes, a top hat—suddenly, building a snowman turns into a high-stakes fashion show. I'm just waiting for the day a snowman walks down the runway with a scarf that says, "Winter is Coming."
I tried giving my snowman a six-pack once, but all I got was a puddle of regret. Turns out, snowmen aren't ready for body positivity. They're stuck in a frozen, outdated beauty standard.
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Snowball fights are like the Hunger Games of winter. It starts all innocent and playful, but give it a few minutes, and alliances crumble faster than a gingerbread house in a rainstorm. You throw one snowball, and suddenly you're at the center of an icy conspiracy. Friends become foes, and before you know it, someone's packing snowballs with rocks like they're auditioning for the Winter Olympics of betrayal.
And don't even get me started on the silent treatment after a particularly accurate shot. You hit someone square in the face, and they act like you revealed their deepest, darkest secret. "Oh, you got me with a snowball? Well, I've been harboring resentment about that time you borrowed my shovel in 2012!"
Snowball fights: where friendships go to hibernate.
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You know, there's this phrase we often use during the holidays: "Dashing through the snow." Now, it sounds all festive and joyful, but have you ever tried dashing through actual snow? It's not as glamorous as it sounds. It's more like a penguin attempting to breakdance on an ice rink. I tried it last winter, thinking I'd be this majestic figure gliding through a winter wonderland. Instead, I looked like a deer on roller skates, slipping and sliding in ways that defied the laws of physics. If anyone saw me, they'd think Santa's newest reindeer had taken a wrong turn and lost its dignity.
And why do we always associate dashing with snow? Why not strolling through the snow or casually sauntering through the snow? Dashing just sets unrealistic expectations. I'm not dashing through the snow; I'm desperately trying not to fall on my face.
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Snow angels are nature's way of tricking you into doing awkward yoga poses on a cold, wet surface. You lie down in the snow, flail your arms and legs around, and hope it looks like a majestic celestial being left its mark. But let's be honest, making a snow angel is never as graceful as it seems. It's more like a snow octopus had a little too much eggnog and decided to have a snow tantrum. You're lying there, trying to channel your inner winter spirit, and all you've accomplished is creating a disturbing imprint of chaos in the snow.
And don't even get me started on the aftermath. You stand up, and suddenly your snow angel has turned into a snow mutant. If that's the heavenly version of me, I need to have a serious talk with whoever's in charge up there.
So, next time you're making a snow angel, just remember: you're not creating art; you're participating in the winter Olympics of bizarre interpretive dance.
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