I know that you are just jealous of my hair.
I spend hours each morning trying to get it just right, only to step outside into SATAN'S ASS...the hideous, dank New York summer's day that you have created just for me, and my perfectly coifed 'do (along with my clothes and my spirit) are instantly deflated. It feels as though I've lept into a bowl of clam chowder (New England, not Manhattan). I mean, why bother? Why bother with life???
Fuck you, humidity. You're a spiteful, jealous bitch with split ends, and you'll never be as pretty as me.