Sun unwilling to make eye contact no matter how long you stare at it.
Despite the advice of a real estate agent, you accepted a below-market offer on your snow fort.
The Druids who circuit train in the park have asked you to stop hassling them for intel.
“DAFFODIL!” Apparently you’ve been yelling while sleepwalking again.
You’re all floppy-sassy-pastel-colour-hat attitude, less the hat.
Neighbours requesting you rehearse your Spring Song indoors, and if possible, use fewer swear words in the lyrics.
You whispered something awful to the last crusty remains of a snowbank, and though it may have deserved it, you fear you may have damaged your soul forever.
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