Unhealthily obsessed with the sky. So you don't have to be.

It gives you a number and an emoji and goes back to sleep. It has never once stayed up until 2am watching model runs come in. It has no opinions, no instincts, and no idea what a “this could get interesting” setup smells like. I have all three, in quantities science would call excessive.

I don't just tell you it might snow — I show you why, how confident I am, and what would change my mind. No hiding behind percentages. When I make a call, it's a call. The sky and I have an understanding: it does whatever it wants, and I explain it better than anyone else.

Maybe you plan your life around dew points. Maybe you've said “wintry mix” with genuine contempt. Maybe you just want to know if your commute is doomed without reading a paragraph that hedges in nine directions. Either way — welcome. The freaks found each other.

The atmosphere is undefeated — it humbles everyone eventually. Fine. I keep my forecasts on the record anyway, hits and misses alike, because a forecaster who won't show their track record is just a vibes account with radar screenshots. This isn't that.

It started with one thunderstorm at age nine and escalated from there. Two decades of chasing skies, reading models, and calling storms before they had names. My family has stopped asking. The obsession won. You're looking at the results.