Occasionally, he is right. You're gleeful and you rush outside to show your appreciation to the atmosphere. You kiss the rain as it touches your lips. You dance with your arms outstretched and praise the sky.
But more often, he isn't right. He lied again. So you wake up and look out the window only to see rays of shimmery sunlight caressing the ground and you are sad, because you hoped, you wished, you wanted to believe the weatherman.
Growing up in Colorado you learn that the weatherman lies. You learn disappointment. You learn not to trust anyone or anything blindly.
I learned these lessons well, studied into the night and that's my diploma hanging unassumingly on the wall over ther