I really don’t want to write tonight. It’s hour 42 with this beast of a migraine – it appears to have the stamina of a decathlete. But I’m writing anyway. Because that’s how writers roll.
What do you talk about when you have nothing to say? The weather.
Around this time last week, I woke up to dead car battery. It was to be expected since my battery was old and already showing signs of a soon departure to the toxic waste disposal in the sky – and it was FUCKING MISERABLY cold. Windchills of -10 degrees Fahrenheit, ya’ll. COLD.
And yet… today, the great Mitten state brought temperatures as high as 55 degrees. FIFTY FIVE DEGREES. IN JANUARY. The world is coming to end. My dad golfed just a week before Christmas and now we’re sitting around in our shorts and flip-flops in January. Apocalypse. Seriously.
The weatherman on the radio claims it’s foggy but I call bullshit. Fog hangs in the air. This is not fog.
The earth is actually STEAMING. Like a pot of boiling water. But instead of a pot of water, it’s all the giant piles of plowed snow that accumulated last week – some parking lot piles as high as the adjacent buildings. With giant wafts of steam billowing from their tippy tops like smoke stacks wrapped in marshmallows. It’s scary looking. Apocalypse scary.