Colder'n a well-digger's ass.

Have I mentioned that I don't care for cold weather?

If not, I'm mentioning it now.

When I got up this morning, the temperature, figuring in the windchill factor, was -7. That's minus seven, y'all. As in, not warm enough to be zero.

When it's this cold, not only are my feet frozen but so is my brain, and I can't think of anything except how nice it would be to bag this paycheck-to-paycheck existence in favor of warmer climes. The fantasy that gets the most airplay is the one where I'm so filthy stinking rich that I get up in the morning, check the weather forecast, and wherever it's 70+ degrees is where I get on my private jet to go to. And if I don't have a home there, when I get there I buy one.

And this would be my back yard:

This would be the pool area:

And this would be me:

It's these little fantasies of mine that keep me going on days such as these.



-- Mox