for almost a month i've been smoking barefoot on the deck. sometimes it is a little chilly and i have to roll into a sitting fetal position for seven minutes, with my toes curled into the hem of my hoodie. but more often, by noon or 1 p.m., the deck has already warmed to the low setting on a heating pad.
yesterday it was raining when i woke. rain is just another reason to not wear shoes. i opened the door, took a step and slid about a foot and finally break danced to a stop.
what the ...
the deck was coated in a thick slippery sheet unlike anything i saw all winter. since i'd already made my commitment to my cigarette, i tiptoed to a corner and hopped from one foot to the other until my feet got a headache and i stubbed the fucker less than three drags into it.
i sprinted back inside, my feet ringing, screaming shit-shit-shit-shit and jumped back into bed.
for the rest of the day, i had to navigate the streets of duluth like a blue hair rehabbing a broken pelvis. its the friggin' novemberist march i've ever seen in my life.
i can't wait to hear the weatherman, any weatherman, pick a weatherman, say: march, in like a lion and out like a ... lion. because that is the sort of thing that weathermen say.