If you’re stuck someplace where it’s freaking cold, you probably hate me right now.
It’s February, it’s sunny, and it’s 54 degrees here.
You may throw snowballs if it’ll make you feel better. I was going to complain about how I feel cold and how I’m sitting here shivering, but I don’t think I’m going to get much sympathy. I mean, a couple days ago it was 20 degrees warmer and we were driving around with the top down on the car. Somehow I don’t think my current discomfort matters a whole lot to anyone other than me.
But I do have some goose bumps. I could get up and change from a my thing thermal shirt to a sweatshirt, but that would involve actually moving. I just survived the commissary; I don’t feel like moving.
(Ok, the commissary was not crowded at all and there were only 10 retiree couples blocking aisles with their sideways carts, but I think complaining about having to go to the commissary is, like, the law…)
While I sit here and shiver and not get up to put on a sweatshirt, I am going to start laying out a new manuscript. By my cat. Yep, Max has been at it again and instead of a furball he coughed up a new book.
Um, he did too write it himself.
Sheesh, such doubters out there.
All right…enough procrastinating. Since it’s not warm enough to run around town topless, I might as well be productive. Max will write the dang book, he just won’t sit here and format the manuscript.