If you’re in Vancouver right now, you know how ass-bitingly cold it is at the moment. And I don’t mean the normal Canadian cold, I mean “-8 and we start panicking and lining the walls of bedrooms with extra blankets because this is Vancouver and we are wusses” cold.
But still myself and Dr. Roommate & Friends persist in our nightly jogs through the graveyard.
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Ugh, I feel like a Scrooge. Except my Scrooge won’t exist in some winterland nightmare; my Scrooge is relaxing either a) poolside anywhere, b) at a backyard barbeque wearing the most stylish pair of tartan shorts known to humankind, or c) anywhere but in Surrey circa January/February (aka, peak suicide time). I hate the snow. It’s beautiful, I know, but so is Tyra Banks and would you want to deal with her for four months at a time? Yeah, me neither.
I’m sitting at work, waiting for a ride, and work has that eerie after-hours buzz, like how you’d imagine the deserted streets of New York would be post-apocalypse. I look like a loser sitting here. Good thing no one is here to see me. I’m reminded of some adage about a tree doing something in the woods. Doing what? Probably updating its blog.