Elmo felt his cynicism becoming contagious. He felt the years piling up behind him, half-interesting experiences and half-appreciated efforts and what to show for it all? Larger waistline, smaller hairline, in and out of various self-destructive habits that he enjoyed far more than was healthy. If the world ended tomorrow, Elmo thought, he wouldn’t have to worry so much about figuring out what the hell he was going to do with himself, much less what the damn weather was going to be. He scratched out “partly cloudy warming trend” from his sheet and wrote “utter darkness” in its place. He indicated the appropriate logo for tomorrow’s weather would be a wolf devouring the sun, even though he knew the little smiley clouds would end up running. He sighed. Such a struggle to renew his existence, and for what? It had been a long, cold night. He picked up the faithful Smudge, who had fallen asleep on a stack of stylebooks, turned, and walked out the door.