We finally turned the heat on, but the air blowing through the vents seems to be cold. I just stuck my finger in hot wax, then peeled it off, and dropped it back into the candle, pretending that the wax was the ring being dropped by Frodo into the depths of Mordor. My hands are all waxy and I can't use my left index finger. We lit things on fire in Woodbridge today. (More specifically, a bra.) My hair smells vaguely like ash. And then we played with condoms. My fingers smell like candle wax. It's cold outside today. Canice and I had hero burgers. We sopped up malted vinegar with salty fries.
Oh wait, you thought I meant those kinds of feelings?
If you want to talk about those kind of feelings, you can find me in the magazine lab every day for the next two weeks, jammed in between fact-checking packages and Scrabulous games. But I may ask you to spin me in my rolly chair and to join me in singing M.C. Hammer hits.
I miss excessive amounts of wine, dancing instead of sleeping, and fresh coconuts with bamboo straws on Sunday mornings.