Minnesota isn’t known for a lot of things, but what it is known for, it is well-known. Snow, obscenely long winters, mosquitoes, and Scandinavians are a few that pop into mind.

What it’s not known for is slush.

Slush is the unfortunate byproduct of the aforementioned snow, ice, and obscenely long winters, and an evil necessary to endure in order to get to summer (and, consequently, the mosquitoes).

Anybody who waxes poetic about the delicate beauty of spring has obviously never been to Minnesota anytime from March–May (Minnesota springs are located somewhere in there, hidden among last minute blizzards).

It’s not delicate. It’s heavy, and muddy, and the aroma of thawing cow manure fills the air. But most of all, it’s slushy. The mountains of snow that have been accumulating are suddenly mushy piles of half-solid water combined with whatever else got trapped in there over the winter.

Then the rain starts and suddenly large puddles form in the middle of streets and you realize that it’s really the land of 100,000 lakes, not 10,000. Your shoes soak through within two steps, and the sagging roofs never even stood a chance.

It’s a sloppy, squishy, melty mess.

And then it freezes. Suddenly, the entire stretch of sidewalk from your front door to your car is transformed into a bumpy, uneven, in-desperate-need-of-a-zamboni ice rink. At this point, it’s easier to stay inside and hope you have enough supplies to last until June (when spring is finally here to stay).

Minnesota is one of the best states a person could ask for, and I’ll defend it until I die.

Just, please—stay away from the slush.