White Sox! Sex!

It is this time of year again. The cold sets in mid-October after unseasonably warm months preceding it, as if to say "It's Sweeps Week in weather town, mother fucker, we have to surprise you or we lose our jobs. Up next: Is Mother Nature a he-she????". The apartment is full of subtle reminders of my current state of mind: radiators but no heat, fireplace but no fire, blankets but no one to cuddle with. Me, alone in my frigid room wearing a hoodie to bed, struggling under the quicksand quilts to drift into slumber where maybe I'll dream about somewhere where the chill does not creep through the bars on my window. This is the kind of weather that I am able to attribute an excuse to spending my Sunday in my Barrel o' Monkey pajamas watching Law and Order and eating Cheetos, it's too rainy and cold to do anything else. I of course know full well I would've done this very event under any circumstances. But it's nice to be able to tell someone you stayed inside all day and did nothing and have them respond, "Oh, yeah, it was really icky out wasn't it?" I don't have to make the excuse, weather does it for me.

I feel like I ought to be a mole or something, all curled into the smallest amount of space I can take up, burrowed underground and lying amongst my brethren, feeding off their natural warmth.

I have nothing to write. That which circles in my head is interesting to none and impossible and purposeless to attempt to communicate. End transmission.