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Eff the cold. I’ll take dark over cold any day. Right now my house is 65 degrees. I’m fairly certain that’s against the law; it’s probably in the Geneva Conventions. One would think that my parents would be more attentive to the needs of their favorite child, but this is a typical conversation with them around this time of year:
“::teeth chattering::”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“It’s coooooooold. And there are wolves after me…”
“Put on a sweater.”
“Turn up the heat!”
“Who’s paying the gas bill?”
“Who’s paying to have my nose amputated from frostbite?!”
“Why on Earth did you give yourself such a ghastly purple pedicure?”
“Those are my toes! Because it’s cold!”
“Put on some socks, idiot child.”
We compromise with an electric blanket that I wrap around myself, shroud-style, for the duration of winter. It means that I can’t get any farther than ten feet from a wall outlet, but that suits me fine. The bathroom is fifteen feet from the socket near my bed, so that leaves five feet to scurry across into the shower, where I promptly scald off the top layer of skin and create enough steam to set off the hallway’s fire alarm, before doing a mad dash back to my room to hibernate under the blanket till the next day. It’s a system.
