Cabin Fever

Captain’s Log, 2 Feb 2011:

We’re approaching day 2 of Snowmageddon/Ohsnowyoudidn’t/Super Special Ice Event 2011 and the news in from the weather forecasters is that it’s fucking cold out there, yo.

Annoyingly, though somewhat predictably, my Twitter feed is full of people yelling (IN CAPS!!!) about how this weather is proof that Al Gore is a dirty, stinking, liberal and global warming is a lie perpetuated by anti-globalization zealots and Satan worshipers. Because, below freezing temperatures in the winter? No way! That wouldn’t happen if the earth’s climate was warming!

Proof that global warming is a farce, duuuuude.

Also, we’re all STILL GONNA DIE.

I think that’s highly exaggerated. Some of us may die, certainly–if Walmart runs out of bread and batteries, there’s a good chance some people might go all Donner on their less fortunate relatives. But I’m feeling optimistic tonight and I don’t think that will happen until at least Thursday.

Still, all the major school districts and universities in the greater Bumplephuck, AR region are closed again because of hazardous road conditions. Those same road conditions kept Red home from work (or rather, my hinky feeling did) where we later staged a sword fight with Boo’s tiny plastic broom.

The knuckle of my pinkie finger paid the price for it.

Now he’s in the living room watching a movie while I sit in bed and try to ignore the paranoia creeping in on me. Because I know our heater is about to crater. And I know that our asshole neighbor is going to crash his shiny new Ford Mustang into our house while he’s doing drunken donuts in the cul-de-sac. And I know our next door neighbors are making hash in their washing machine, which is going to catch fire, which will spread to our house, and then I’ll have watch our wordly possessions melt into twisted little chunks of metal and burnt plastic while I stand barefoot outside in subzero temperatures wearing nothing but my underwear and a t-shirt.

And also, I’m getting a creepy feeling about Alex’s Mickey Mouse birthday balloon. It’s been s-l-0-w-l-y leaking helium since the beginning of January and now it looks like some deranged, flesh eating version of everyone’s favorite cuddly vermin friend. Every time I walk into the kitchen to get a bottle of water, that thing is staring at me, bumping drunkenly along the ceiling. It’s… creepy.

He's coming for you. In the dark. And he means BUSINESS.

It’s only a matter of time before that thing meets the business end of something stabby.

Clearly, I need to get out of the fucking house. Soon. Halp?


About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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