I don't like complainers. I really don't. Well, let me rephrase that: I hate the complaining, not the complainer.
Nevertheless, today I'm gonna complain: Just a TINY bit. So bear with me. There's a point, I promise.
I get up well before the sun every day, including weekends -- which isn't so bad until winter rolls around. Even then it isn't much to grumble over until I have to bundle up, scrape frost off the windshield, let the car warm up, and deal with winter the rest of the day.
Then it's an issue.
I passionately hate winter. Yes, I know I live in Wisconsin, where it's winter four to six months out of the year and should be an accepted part of my life -- but I hate it.
(Don't go! The whining is over. I promise.)
This motivates me. I utilize my dislike for arctic weather to get my rear in gear and write. A lot. If I can just get enough income from my writing endeavors so I can flip off the rat race, stay home, and compose endlessly, I will be a happy man. Winter can bring its worst. I'll just stock up in October and hibernate til April.
So my hatred is a useful hatred... a motivator. I want to make money in such a fashion that letting the car warm up only happens when I actually WANT to go somewhere. I could laugh at icy roads. Going to work in December would consist of donning a comfy robe and slippers, making a mug of hot chocolate, wearing headphones playing inspiring music, and getting to work on the latest literary endeavor.
I would finally agree with the lunatic who wrote "Let It Snow".
And I could dislike complaining without being hypocritical. I think everyone would like that.