And so, here we are in a new year: New dreams, new goals, new aspirations, and new levels of winter fuckery to deal with.
But like . . . amirite, or amirite?
I rang in 2018 at a cottage two hours north of Toronto, and as midnight struck and everyone was kissing, hugging, and extending warm wishes to one another, I was checking the weather on my phone because I have my damn priorities straight.
-19 degrees. FARENHEIT. Which means that shit looked even crazier in Celsius.
Do you know how long it takes for your nose hair to freeze at -19 degrees Farenheit? The answer is not very long at all. I don't know about you, but I prefer not to use my nostril caves as miniature models that demonstrate how stalagmites form.
This winter is proving to be a bad one, for sure, but even I have to admit it doesn't compare to the one four years ago, when the mere mention of "polar vortex" was enough to trigger a PTSD episode.
But, no: "bomb cyclone" doesn't give me the warm and fuzzies either. That sounds like something out of a nearly entirely CGI Vin Diesel movie, with a plot that involves cybergenetically enhanced abominable snowmen (and snowladies) trained in ballistic warfare, spreading global terror by being shot out of the sky by a blizzard hurricane—Sharknado style—artificially created and powered by a demented, vengeful, genius Mr. Freeze type. Also starring The Rock, Dwayne Johnson, who for some reason is in CGI as well.
This is a safe space, so if any of you steal my movie idea, I'm going to be very, very upset.
H&M faux fur coat and corduroy trousers; Uniqlo cardigan; Zara top and shoes; American Apparel belt