COLD

Shivering is the low frequency end of what excruciating pain is the high frequency end.

Lower frequencies than that begin to sauté our butter melding with the wherever as frigid names crackle and flake away like melting ashes. If ever I pick up what remains of wherewithal again, it will not only have to be life threatening, it will have to get me closer to the equator, just so I retain some smidgen of choice in how I stroll and pedal my way to the inevitable compost pile of life’s omniped multicylcle.

Yeah, I don’t like cold. It’s never been a friend of mine. A carton of cigarettes a day are better for my lungs than 10 minutes of non-stop shivering. Not sure what the term for the respiratory equivalent to a heart attack would be, but I suffered one so arrhythmic the only way I survived the night was by passing out so I could breath in … over and over … until a guardian nerf eld discovered me turning blue in the morning in my hammock and fetched an asthema inhaler, melting the problem like butter. I'm still not back to my vigor before it happened three years ago.

Constant, excruciating pain is the white noise that is never gray, anywhere; each cell contributing the bayonetto (an extremely sharp bayonet, sharp even for a stiletto) extremes of its individual displeasure with the less than artichoke dipping temperature to which it is being so unjustly subjected making it move its own butter just to get warm, what a fucking wasteful indignity! My cells hate it when that happens and curse me long after they get their wind back and hit the showers. I am sort of obligated to go along to get along. I depend on a happy body. No body says, “Yo dood,” when me bod’s not with th’ haps.

What bothers me almost as much as this inability to adapt to natural temperature conditions in an otherwise pleasant environment is the findings that wild children (called feral only because of some inbred taboo against admitting we humans could be related to those over which we claim to hold mythically endowed stewardship, like the catholic church seeks sees after wayward little alter boys) have an almost infinite tolerance for temperature variation, implying that if my sensitivity to cold is not some genetic inheritance, civilization can make us incapable of returning to the wild in more ways than by our actions and our thoughts. Obviously we spoil easy … else we’d all still be laying back under the star lit skies out on the old homestead land instead of standing in long lines in neon lit concrete boxes of cities of a mythical homeland to see movies about laying back under the …

If only knowing that could make me warmer. Rub two thoughts together. Throw in some sapling theories for kindling. Watch out for sparks. Turn up the ignorant bliss to eleven … just a short blast from the furnace of insensitivity …

Oops, Mr. Buttersworth, cheap at twice the price, meet Aintyo Mimer, the original copier — snap — blowing by like the wind up toy skirts of — crackle — non-prophet hedges against — pop — faith in all-profit possibilities. Getting’ warmer. Pheuzzzzzzzzzzzz…