pilot lights

have mercy. i am sitting here as a pamsicle in my own fucking home. the furnace is conked and the service guy can't come until tomorrow. i dare not contemplate the potential symbolism of the pilot light in my furnace being off. a powerful metaphor, when you think about it. the sheer importance of that function notwithstanding, even the terminology of pilot is kinda profound. the driver, the guide, the navigator. the one at the controls. now poof, gone. and so the ensuing paralysis and dysfunction is rather poignant. i've long had the sickness of plucking symbolism out of most anything, but ever since my friend beck recently came to the grandiose conclusion that she was finally going to pass a spanish class because she drove up to find that parking was free on that first day of the semester, i realize i'm in pretty good shape.

i am unable to find it funny that i am too immobile to cook, and too cold to open the freezer to retrieve microwavable leftovers.

not to mention that after three days of complete and utter sleepiness, not knowing if it was a pre-sick thing or not, i awoke today with the inevitable itchy throat / drippy nose combo. which makes the deep freeze that is my home all the more infuriating. or hilarious. i am forcing myself to try to get some work done instead of burrowing under the comforters, the mere thought of which makes me drool. currently, i am sporting two pairs of pants, a t-shirt, two sweaters, thick boot socks, warm fuzzy slippers, and the big huge indian shawl that once was my grandmother's is wrapped several times - unceremoniously - around my neck. like a thick sandalwood-scented noose.

and it's not even winter yet. and i was raised in the frigid prairie tundra. this is pathetic.

in case you've ever pondered the thought: yes, it is incredibly difficult to type while wearing cheap magic mini gloves, or any other type of hand-warmer, for that matter. and it is very hard to concentrate when the aggressive swirling of one's own breath occupies the whole tired view.