Half an inch max, accumulation unlikely

Well it's nearly the end of April here in Colorado as it also is almost everywhere else in the rest of the world right now, and so naturally last night I paid little attention to the weather forecast and crawled right into my tent and fell asleep expecting just another regular night out in the woods—in the morning I'd wake up to maybe a few scattered patches of snow here and there assuming none of the gods opted to smite me in my slumber and then I'd make my usual breakfast of instant coffee and some hashbrowns with scrambled eggs onions and of course hot sauce. Now, those with any reasonable understanding of what it's like to live at 8,000 feet above sea level will perhaps not be surprised to hear that I did not experience quite what I expected to experience. And so it was that sometime between 3 and 4am I awoke to the soft insistent sound of heavy wet flakes crashlanding on my rainfly, and I realized that my tent was actually in a bad state of being about halfway collapsed under what seemed to be approximately one or so feet of very wet spring snow. Cursing the gods for delivering me unto such an unfair state of weather affairs, I extracted myself from the disaster waiting to happen, confirmed the amount of snow was about one or so feet, postholed over to the spot next to my car where I was pretty sure I'd left the big stick I've been using to prop up the rear hatch door ever since the lift supports kicked the bucket, successfully unsnowed the big stick, and then proceeded to use it as an improvised shoveling device to madly excavate the area around my severely at-risk backcountry bedroom before it imploded and totally ruined my life. There isn't much more to the story—that's really about it, but instead of wrapping this thing up I'm just gonna keep rambling my way along right onto this conveniently located downward spiral staircase into what I suspect is some sort of deep-seated psychosocially dysfunctional state of mind in which I'm at considerable risk of complete cognitive collapse under the stress of existence in much the same way that my aforementioned tent was at risk of complete functional collapse under the stress of wintertime precipitation. Hmmm. This analogy strikes me as bit too easy and uninteresting to bother exploring any further. Those with any reasonable understanding of what it's like to be a writer with chronic writers block and a very mild and 100% manageable case of alcohol dependency will perhaps not be interested in bothering to explore it either. And so it was that sometime between 3 and 4pm I threw back the last of my beer, shat out a few more words to get this thing just a little bit over that magical 500 mark, closed out my bar tab, smashed my way through the swinging saloon doors and went sashaying down main street mostly sloshed with my middle finger way up in the air aimed at the gods as all the clouds above began to softly swirl and twist together in happy nontrepid preparation for tonight's half an inch max.