It is barely–just by three or four degrees–into the 60’s here at Fillmore South. Your humble correspondent has been forced to wear pants IN HIS OWN HOME.
Like an animal.
If posts cease, I have frozen to death and a number of feral cats whom I had thought were my friends are now licking me ike some sort of Jew-sicle.
(Undoubtedly, some of you are revving yourselves up to call me a puss-puss, and tell me your town is so cold that the post office phase-sifted into a Bose-Einstein condensate. Save your energy: I reserve the right to be intensely selfish with my concern about weather; that is: I only give a shit about what it’s like directly outside my front door and along the way to any appointments. Other people’s weather is like other people’s diets or children: I only care about them after they’ve killed a quarter of a million people. Up until then, it’s your problem.)