numb

It’s ;cold and I;m typig with gloves on ande tthis is N EX[ERIENT TO SEE HOW I CAN TYPE WITH MY FINGERS HAVING THIS PADDIG nd thefeel of the fingers hittig the jeyps isdifferet and I CAT reaoly type CCCURtey and I keep hitting the caps lock and that’s ot good. Myeb LATER I’LL tak the gloves off and write something reL.

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Two, maybe three hours later....

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It’s warmer now. The gloves are off and I can feel my fingers again. I turned on my heater for the first time. It’s actually an air conditioner, but it can heat up to 30 C and that was enough to warm up this room. When I moved in to this place it was more or less fully furnished. Came with the standards: TV, bedding, table and chairs, random appliances. And also the greatest invention on earth. Heated Carpet. Yes, heated carpet. When I first saw it, folded up in the closet back in August when the heat was cruel and godless, I thought to myself, Jesus, that’s an uncomfortable looking blanket. It feels like a burlap sack. But, then it dawned on me that it was too thick to be a blanket, that no person would want to snuggle with this ugly square of shag, that it wasn’t mean to be slept under, but to be laid upon, to be thrown across the fake plastic wood floor and plugged into the wall and switched to the warmest setting. It’s a great thing, this carpet. It makes accepting the fact that I’ll be living through winter in an apartment with no insulation a little easier to swallow. But now, after more than two weeks of use, it’s getting dirty. Crumbs and dirt and body hair and spilt alcohol and toe nail clipping and cigarette ash have woven themselves into the wooly fibers so that now, while I’m toasting myself upon the rug, I am effectively doing so in a bed of my own filth.

This leads me to two new thoughts: a.) living alone is both wonderful and self destructive. And, b.) I need to buy a vacuum.