Anti-Arctica

Not to be the 3,819th person to remind you of this, in the past four months, but I don’t think there’s anything worse, in the entire world, than being cold. Okay fine, I’m exaggerating, because: terrorism, erasable pens, those twins on American Idol that made me want to pull out all of my hair, and then my eyeballs, and then the part of the brain that controls my short-term memory, with a pair of pliers, and who ended up getting the “We Know What You Did Three Years Ago, And It Was Illegal And/Or In Maxim” offscreen boot, so they weren’t even good for that bit of satisfaction, but, uh, anyway...no offense to the Snow Miser, but I'm not sure how many more daily-highs-and-lows-that-resemble-tennis-game-scores I can take before I personally start up the "We Will Surround This State With a Weather-Proof Dome, Even If We Have To Take Tax Money Away From Public Schools, As Long As It's Not From The Music And Art Programs" Fund. (I take donations via PayPal!)

I mean, is it like this everywhere, or was my house just built on some ancient Eskimo burial ground? I wake up making actual "Brrrr!" sounds, the cold forcing me to do the old-man shuffle around the house, the post-shower chill probably enough to preserve my body for the next 150 years, during which global warming will have hopefully had its way and I'll step outside to year-round summer and seals wearing Hawaiian shirts. Which, even if I can't get them off of the lawn, will beat stepping outside now, with the layers and the gloves rendering all of my joints completely useless, and my teeth knocking around like a wind-up toy, so that everything I say sounds like when you'd talk into the fan when you were little, and your voice would be a robot's, and then your mom would tell you to stop, because I guess if you stuck your tounge out too far, there'd go your speaking priveleges, and who feels like teaching their kid sign language, really? And factor in the...factor that most everywhere I go depends on walking or public transportation and you'll understand why I've been living like Bill Watterson, all winter long.

Sometimes I stare at my hands, trying to remember what it was like to feel my own fingers. I faugely renwmber beink avle to hit the r8ght keys. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic. Still, I don't know how they do it in Alaska, without setting themselves on fire just to keep warm. Anyway, I might as well look at the bright side: At least if I stand outside eating a lollypop, right now, it almost looks like I'm smoking. I do want my friends to think I'm cool, after all.