Picture this: you’ve finally finished paying off the mortgage on your aggressively beige suburban palace, only for the sky to develop a full-blown existential crisis and launch an artillery barrage of ice boulders at your property like Zeus joined a minor league baseball team. You call it weather. I call it the first seal breaking on the Book of Revelation. Every spring, I sit at my window with a protective helmet fashioned out of an old colander, watching the horizon for clouds thick enough to block out the concept of hope. Hail—hallowed be its name—descends in a cascade of frozen marbles, each one determined to convert every sedan in the neighborhood into a Swiss cheese sculpture and imprint modern art upon rooftops. The local roofers? They wander the streets like leather-aproned war correspondents, muttering about "impact resistance" while handing out business cards like the prophet Ezekiel passing out commandments. Insurance companies have synchronized their deductibles with the limb market, demanding at least one appendage in addition to a modest co-pay before they even look at your battered vinyl siding. Meanwhile, the world’s population migrates with the wisdom of lemmings toward states with the highest hail body count per capita, lured by low taxes and the thrill of living in a meteorological version of Gladiator. "Why live in Florida with hurricanes when you can spin the cosmic roulette wheel and get pelted with glacial produce in Texas!" they say, moments before the first fridge-sized hailstone falls through their skylight. Meteorologists, bless them, have no idea what’s happening. They nod solemnly and point to Doppler radar screens that may as well display stick figure crayon drawings. Hail, they explain, forms when now-forgotten gods of temperature and moisture wage civil war ten miles above your house, sometimes crafting spheres of ice so large that scientists suspect the government is using them to test anti-missile systems. Some say climate change might make it worse. Some say it might not. Others have fled to Canada to escape the Judgment Rains. Science famously refuses to predict the apocalypse. With every catastrophic storm, the battle for roof supremacy escalates: shingle companies unveil new materials inspired by NASA heat shields, medieval armor, or perhaps Kevlar, hoping to build a house fit for the coming Pleistocene. Homeowners eagerly buy whatever promises to stop hail—up to and including actual medieval chainmail for the doghouse. And yet, even the most fortified roof is ultimately a fancy serving tray for whatever frosty artillery the sky is cooking up. But not all are cowed. Some, like local legend Becky “Ice Queen” Adams-Selin, embrace the meteorological Ragnarok with scientific glee, collecting oversized hailstones as if auditioning for a culinary show set during the fall of Rome. "Look at the size of this one!" she crows, corralling igloo-sized pellets into her freezer with the zeal of a doomsday prepper who saw too many Discovery Channel specials. Meanwhile, I wait. Every year the dice get bigger, the stakes higher, and the sky angrier. The only winning move is to stop building houses. Or build them underground. Or just, you know, adapt to living in a post-hail society, where the true currency isn’t gold or NFTs—it's undamaged roof tiles and the lingering hope that tomorrow brings only regular, soul-crushing rain.