Oh, it fucking snowed. At least an inch or two, I think. It's mostly melted away now, because there was rain and the temperature is currently 36˚F. We're have a tiny heatwave before a murderous plunge. There will be more snow Tuesday, and the high will only get to 26˚F.
I spent the whole evening lying on the living room floor watching The West Wing. We're about a third of the way through Season Two.
So, now, I'm sick and groggy from the damned Seroquel. It's no wonder so much of 2014 was such a clusterfuck, trying to live on this shit.
All hail these sad-ass, one-sentence excuses for paragraphs.
Since we've been back in Providence – seven days, one week – I've been outside only once, and then only for about three or four minutes to get something out of the car. The wind was like knives carved from ice. Yesterday, I asked my mother if I could come down to sit out the worst of the winter in Birmingham, and she said I could. Now, I just have to find a way not to have to do that. My not being here creates trouble and chaos. So long as I'm here, all the trouble and chaos is held behind my eyes. Okay, not all. I do leak, it's true.
The thermostat in the house here blew out before we left for Woodstock in early December. In fact, I think it blew out in late November. And our landlord has still not gotten off his ass and replaced it. He has now claimed to have – after a month – ordered a new one. Without it, we can't control the radiators. Without it, we effectively have no heat. In Providence. In the winter. We have the fireplace, which heats exactly one room, that parlor where we rarely ever are.
Only 75 more days until spring. I'd say, sure, I can hold on that long, except, in Providence that means we actually have about 168 days, because you can't really expect springlike weather in Rhode Island until the Summer Solstice.
I fucking hate this place.