Al Gore is full of crap.
There is no way the world is warmer than it was last year. I don’t remember EVER being this cold. My eye sockets are cold. My elbows are cold. My spleen is cold, people, my spleen.
I have been walking around in the house with my coat on for days, contemplating breaking the glass in front of the fireplace to crawl inside. Have I mentioned before that I hate Winter? The high this week is 24 degrees, and the low is somewhere between Holy Crap and I’m Going to Die.
It’s times like these that I look outside and try to remember what Summer looks like. I have a vague memory of a pair of short pants I once wore and there’s a button in the car that says A/C, but I can’t for the life of me remember its purpose. I pushed it a few days ago, and it started snowing in the car. I think it stands for ASININE COLDNESS. When would I ever want that?!
Isn’t it ironic that freezing to death is one of the better ways to die? You just get sort of numb and sleepy, then drift off into a deep slumber and dream about bright lights and organ music and your great-great-grandmother and then, hey, whaddya know—you’re dead. It’s getting to the numb, sleepy part that would completely suck. It would be like walking around in your house for days, completely cold, wearing your coat and still shivering.
I’m dying, aren’t I?
Saturday morning we are headed to California. Ryan has an interview for an internship position in Long Beach, so we’re taking a long weekend and using our Disneyland passes once more. The forecast for our visit is a bright and sunny 68 degrees. SICKS-TEEE AAAAAYYYT. I think I remember sixty-eight degrees. It feels like happiness.
What if we accidentally forget to come home?