Steady snowfall right now, fat flakes as arid and brittle as flecks of ancient parchment settling on the lid of some forgotten tomb. It’s like that here, stuck and lost in some room of the pyramids, eating a shoe, freezing so bad you’ll piss all over yourself just to get instantaneously warm. The winter of the oh-six oh-seven pissfest. A lot of smoking and body spray, that winter.
When the Nobel Prize committee comes asking me for my nomination, the inventor of heated car seats is at the top of my list. My ass is warm and although it might feel like I’ve pissed my pants, I actually haven’t (usually).
If Sudafed wasn’t propping me up to report any of this, I doubt you’d be reading it. Not unless I got up and sleep-wrote and the chances of that happening are about as good as me sleep-washing-and-folding-and-putting-it-all-away laundry action. Ergo, you’re either reading this by the magic of cold medicine or threatened by my somnambulant stumble, arms outstretched and fingers dangling threateningly (your leg must be broken if you can’t outrun a zombie).
Sunday night I was feeling that "uh-oh, I'm getting that “vague malaise but definitely a cold” thing and sure enough, when I got up Monday morning, the ick was in full-swing. Working and sleeping has been the extent of my last two days.
Considering twenty feet of snow in New York and dangerous tornadoes all over the place, yeah, "wahhhh is me”. X tells me Marni has had a 103 temp all day and as much as that kills me, it's my broken toe, your broken leg. Shut up already about it, my toe fucking hurts.