I once dated a weather girl, we talked up a storm.

I dated a partially nude model, and she did a half-assed job.

Gonna be a real frog-strangling turd-floater.

I wanted to take up music, so my father bought me a blunt instrument. He told me to knock myself out.

No storm lasts forever, difficult times too get over after a while. Weather the storm; it’s sunny on the other side.

By early evening all the sky to the north had darkened and the spare terrain they trod had turned a neuter gray as far as the eye could see. They grouped in the road at the top of a rise and looked back. The storm front towered above them and the wind was cool on their sweating faces. They slumped bleary-eyed in their saddles and looked at one another. Shrouded in the black thunderheads the distant lightning glowed mutely like welding seen through foundry smoke. As if repairs were under way at some flawed place n the iron dark of the world.