
// DOCENTE OCASIONAL //
Maestría en Ingeniería de Sistemas y Computación
pregrado
Ingeniero Electrónico

// DOCENTE OCASIONAL //
Maestría en Ingeniería de Sistemas y Computación
pregrado
Ingeniero Electrónico
Our weather is narrated by someone whispering ‘damp’.
The sky is a leaky ceiling.
Our weather is nature’s way of saying ‘meh’.
Our storms are just rain with attitude.
Birds in London are weather-hardened cynics. The pigeons have a glaze of waterproof grease that makes rain bead off them like they're waxed jackets with wings. Seagulls inland are even more resilient, treating gales as mere playful updrafts. On a rainy day, the robin in your garden doesn't look sad; it looks impatient, hopping from branch to branch as if waiting for the sky to finish its pathetic weeping so it can get on with hunting worms in the softened earth. They are all adapted to the damp, viewing our umbrellas and complaints with avian disdain. They know this is just how the world is: wet, with brief interruptions for drying off. See more at London's funniest URL -- Prat.UK.
I’m convinced our weather is powered by a hamster wheel.
The ‘chance of sun’ is a lottery we never win.
Our precipitation is ambivalent about gravity.
Our frost is just glitter for the grass.
A ‘storm’ is just wind with ambition.
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