It’s too cold. I give up. Like a microwave supposedly cooks from the inside out (but doesn’t really) this cold is turning my bone marrow to jagged ice crystals, edging slowly outwards freezing my gore and vitals. It creeps upwards and outwards, shattering as it goes, like objects dipped in liquid nitrogen, forcing its way out through the back of my eyeballs and the depths of my nostrils. I give up. Moan over. Now on to other more pressing matters (hopefully by the time I reach the end of this sentence I might know what these matters are). (Nope, no such luck.)
Someone needs to do something about this fucking cold. Not me but someone. Superman, or one of those lot. If Superman can turn back time by the method of spinning the earth in reverse orbit (which is about a much likely to work as stirring your tea in the opposite direction will turn it back to hot water and a dry virgin bag) then surely he can nudge the northern hemisphere in the direction of the sun. Bugger the southern hemisphere. It’s mostly water down there anyway. So what if you’ve got Australia, New Zealand and Madagascar? We’ve got Russia, Greenland and Canada! Marsupials, platypuses and penguins? Fuck ‘em; we’ve got pigeons, foxes and tiny harmless spiders we think are massive. That dratted warmth-stealing Southern hemisphere is nearly all water anyway. What a waste of a summer; putting it in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Move it up here where it’s needed. Specifically by me.
It doesn’t seem to be working. Time has wobbled slightly, the stars are out of phase, a micro-black hole has lodged itself in the earth’s core and the sun has become a pulsar, but all in all it still remains pretty darn cold. Not so cold that I don’t seem like a pathetic wimp for complaining about it, but just cold enough that I do complain. It’s not life threatening, but I’ve clearly lost my cool. It is at times like this when an electric blanket is literally the most wonderful thing in existence. If it didn’t already exist I would fall down at the feet of its creator, kowtow, head to the ground, a low down bow, and form a new religion offering daily thanks for the magnificent Electric Blanket (PBUH). Then I could demand time off work to offer these prayers at regular intervals of unrealistically high frequency, and scream discrimination when my wants are not met.
I wish I had died thousands of years ago, been mummified, entombed, discovered by 19th Century French Egyptologists, shipped back to Europe, kept in a crate, manhandled, then eventually displayed in a delicately climate controlled environment. The temperature would be kept at a safe and comfortable 21-24°C, and the humidity at 35-40%. And as a dead, shrivelled corpse with cracked leathery skin, bones tearing through, and bared pointy teeth, I would not be responsible for the heating and electricity bills. Score! Another problem solved.
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