At the risk of possibly offending all my friends and relatives on the East Coast, I must humbly inform you that I am right now wearing pajama pants and an A shirt (shades of Stanley Kowalski) in an unheated apartment.
The windows are open, it looks like it will be a gorgeous day.
A high of around seventy degrees.
Oh my gosh, was that an earthquake?
Just kidding.
Dammit, I just saw a fruit fly!
Just kidding.
There's no more pot!
Just kidding.
A flood!
...
Later today I may just take my surf board down to the beach; we're probably gonna have a barbecue and dance in the sand. Margaritas! Guitars!
Just kidding.
Seriously, though, I love reading about extreme weather back east. It tells me that even with everything wrong in this world, and Washington being taken over by subhumans and trolls, there are still bright spots, where the sun is shining, and soft balmy breezes soothe the brow.
Butterflies, wildflowers, and gay maidens.
We're not snowed in, suckers.
California.
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We had a mere foot and a half of snow, driving winds of nearly 50 mph and visibility of only 300 feet.
And the obligatory power outages.
Not far from where I live is a house full of engineering students freshly landed from southern India. Buried in all that heavy white shite, the poor dears looked almost as dazed and confused as a delicate Californian would.
M
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