i finally got sick from the endless cold in my house, so i guess it’s time to bite the bullet & turn the fucking heat on. i’m nervous about gas bills, but what the fuck ever, i guess. lately everyone who comes over has commented on how it’s weird that i’m one of the coldest people they know & one of the last to turn on the heat. i like to say, in response to that comment, that it’s because i’m tough. it’s all fake bravado, though–i don’t think i’m tough at all. i am a pretty cold person; i need a hoodie when it’s 70 degrees out; and my current 51-degree house is just killing me. really i don’t turn my heat on because a) i spent my formative years living with punks, who are perhaps the most anti-central-heating group of peeps on the planet and b) i still cling to the belief that got instilled in me that i don’t deserve nice things. but my body is rebelling; my body is saying, “no, you’re being fucking stupid, turn the goddamn heat on so we can both finally relax,” my body always knows somehow.
the cold crept in, underneath the piles of blankets, in through my sinus cavities, waking me up an hour before i even had to. laying in bed, listening to the horrible dogs bark & watching the gray light break through my window. still cold, even underneath four blankets, even though it’s theoretically not even really cold out, yet.