The Chicago winter rain is the fucking worst. Worse than the wind. Worse than the snow. Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit. Anyone who tells you the snow is worse can shut their damn piehole. Downtown snow is delightful. It’s a goddam treat. Soft and fluffy, the jumbo flakes stick to your mittens like a drag queen’s glittery sequins. Suddenly, you’re an extra in a made-for-television Mariah Carey holiday special. It’s fucking magical. The Chicago winter rain is a different animal. It comes at you with razor sharp press-on nails scratching at your eyes like it wants to kick your ass. Like you fucked around and now it’s time to find out. Unlike the subby snow, the rain relentlessly tops you. It is pissed off. And you are the reason why. You are a trespasser, a soft suburban tourist. Do your damn job and GTFO, you poser, the rain mutters as it marshals the wind to upturn your cheap-ass umbrella, while simultaneously summoning splashing waves of filthy street water to soak you and your ridiculous New Balance walking shoes. The Chicago winter rain has a deep distain for wage-working commuters. The rain doesn’t want you to dawdle at the end of the workday. Bite me, you pussy. The rain is your bully. It will piss in your Cheerios. It has one mission—purge the streets. Go home, loser. The relentless Chicago winter rain herds shit birds to the station, just as happy to clear suburban workers from its streets, as it is washing cigarette butts into overflowing storm sewers. Choke on a bag of dicks. The Chicago winter rain doesn’t give a fuck about you or the train you rode in on.