Dear Liza,
There's a hole in my bucket.

[That sneaky paper clip that sprung from my greeting was disguised as a star. Treachery. He's watching me now from the corner of his heavily lidded eyes, swaying ever so slightly to the left. My left, not his. Would I only click cancel, still I cannot give him the satisfaction.]

There is so much ICE. My street has been transformed in to a slick, shining deathtrap. I can feel my boots lose grip as I slid slowly towards the oncoming traffic with each step. Curse you Gore-Tex ®. You superpowers mean nothing now.
Ice looks attractive enough, but much too hard on the knees.