spring (ha! you call this spring?) bitching
By the way—as a P.S. to that last entry—while the neighboring table hashed over their dieting strategies, I thoroughly enjoyed my dinner of bread, wine, and a salad that included strawberries, cheese, and chicken (cooked, of course), and thereby neatly violated every one of their rules.
yum.
I don’t have much to discuss tonight. Maybe I’m just posting too early, before anything interesting has happened in the alley or in my brain. But I did want to take a moment and share with you a sentiment that this weather we’ve been having as of late has inspired in me.
FUCK YOU, MOTHER NATURE.
See, here’s the thing. It’s 60 degrees in my apartment. Now I know that sounds warm, and it is, if you’re out frolicking in the sun while a soft springy breeze whispers soft springy nothings against your hair. And even then, it’s not really all that warm. Definitely not balmy.
In an apartment, though, with hardwood floors and rattly windows and a cat who doesn’t even make a good lap-warmer because he’s gone insane and needs counseling, it’s pretty damn cold. Pretty damn cold. And no relief is forthcoming, because, of course, management has turned off the heat. And rightly so, because, of course, it’s FRICKIN’ LATE MAY. That’s right, FRICKIN’. As in, ALMOST FRICKIN’ JUNE. I should not—really, really should not—be sitting here in flannel pajamas and a wool sweater, under a fuzzy blanket, warming my icy fingers on my laptop. Contemplating a cup of hot chocolate. One week from June.
Should NOT.