Notes on the New Season

The new season, of course, being winter, which came, as it must, with snow. Fuck snow and winter and change, but not yet, because I require change to free me from this obscene season and all its abominable chill. I have a warmish hat and I have a warm coat (too warm, in fact, and it makes me sweat some) and I have new boots (which offer me unheard of traction whilst falling down the three stories of thickly frosted wooden backsteps) and I have gloves (that once fit Jessica, but that I pulled onto my hands in defiance of space and with reliance on elasticity and so what if I can see my fleshy fists through the stretched-out knit?) and I have warm socks. Outerwear, my friends, is not the issue. The issue is that I cannot will myself to get out of bed because the floor is cold and will never be warm and while it was refreshingly chilled during the summer, it is now cold enough to preserve meat.

Possibly.

And it is after 4pm and I've gotten out of bed once today (and then only to urinate) and I am past hungry and I do have shit to do tonight (like fry goat cheese and wash overhead transparencies) and I have done nothing today but download music (mostly bad) and read books (mostly bad) that have former graduates of my high school (not my classmates though) in supplementary pictures. Also, I am out of Puffs (my favorite brand of Kleenex) and I am still kind of cold and I am not so far past hungry as I claimed before. And the leftover pizza in the fridge belongs, in a just world, to Jessica. I might eat it anyway, or at least some ice cream.

Possibly.

Which is utterly absurd because, as I've made abundantly clear, it's cold (the IT of it ALL) and I'm cold (an unlikelihood, given my enormous bulk) and YET, I still would like some ice cream, even though I'll be forced to juggle and boggle each bite around my mouth in sweet creamy horror. Or maybe I'll have a can of Sierra Mist (my favorite brand of uncola) to clear from my throat the detritus of my (scarcely fled) cold. Getting over a cold is like having a roommate leave mid-lease and leave behind a lot of their shit. I'm forever stepping over humidifier parts and crusty Puffs (again, Kleenex) and there's a glass of water on the bookshelf with a shot glass in it and, in that, the dregs of a double dose of cough syrup that really made me cough even more in disgust at the flavor which was like a mockery of everything orange.

But anyway.

I need to go to the grocery (some three blocks away) and buy goat cheese (for frying) and maybe to the bakery (eight blocks away) to buy rolls (for buffalo burgers).

I need to get out of bed.

Now.

9.thirty PM Addendum

Utter Failure. I decided to eat some ice cream and urinate (the order is iffy right now; my sense of chronology has never been good. Suffice it to say that they were not simultaneous events) before venturing to the market and bakery. As I urinated, my cell phone began vibrating in my hip pocket (a distinctly unsettling sensation, I assure you) and it was Jessica. As my phone had been set to vibrate and I had worn no pants until that moment, I had missed seven (7) calls from various (3 (three)) people all asking me time-sensitive questions. Jessica wanted to know what time dinner was being served (on my days off, I delight in preparing exceptional and sumptuous gourmet meals) and all I could tell her was that it would be ready whenever the damn restaurant was finished preparing it. So we went to the damn restaurant and I ate the smallest pizza ever. It was good.

Then we came home and took a nap before bed. Grueling day. I mean, not so much for me, but for someone, I guess.