Work(ing Title)

There’s nothing like standing outside waiting for a cab to make me want to write. My return to the great slow north has been somewhat disappointing.

The wind and rain have teamed up with a temperature in the 30’s, which would have been reasonable if my campus cafeteria hadn’t let me down. Who would’ve thought that by 13:30 the only food available is what has been sitting, wrapped and refrigerated since God-knows-when. I also would have liked to see the Hobbee’s breakfast I shared with Eli last me a little longer, but I suppose eight hours is reasonable. The temperature back home in the valley yesterday was flirting with 70, and so I foolishly held my hopes high today, only to be quickly bitch-slapped by reality upon stepping out onto the curb at SEA.

Nuzzling the collar of my jacket (well popped), and trying to focus my thoughts on the part of me protected by my cap (well angled), is keeping me relatively warm. Nonetheless I’m counting the minutes until I can strip off the lion-share of this stuff and whip up something to eat.

Once I’ve fed myself something, I’ll be downstairs, caressing my car into starting (she doesn’t like to without attention this long), and then roaring into the gym. Between Manson, Reznor, and the boys from Vegas I should have the sonic support necessary to make a triumphant reappearance at the gym. The last month of malaise, combined with a fantastic injection of unadulterated hope, makes for a cocktail that screams inside my skull.

Update: Thanks Rini for reminding me to check the dictionary on ‘doffed.’