It’s getting nine kinds of Shining around here, and there’s very little relief in sight. I am losing my ability to spell, speak coherently, and put on pants. It must be time for spring already, mustn’t it? No? Soon, maybe? Still no? Okay. I’ll just climb back under this blanket and continue talking to myself.
The worst part about winter in New England is that it totally kills any originality you might ever have had, in terms of writing topics. ‘Long about this time of year, I find that my conversation is solely restricted to:
1) How goddamn cold it is.
2) How sorta sick I feel.
3) How much I hate the snow.
Also, I have come to realize that every year is the Worst Year Ever for weather and illness. Ask anyone. Any old person you see on the street. They’ll be happy to tell you.