All shall know this and despair!
Listen, I probably don't know much about your dwelling. I don't know how it's laid out or anything like that. I don't know how many framed Mariah Carey posters litter its spaces. I don't know if it has periwinkle wallpaper with tapioca accents and an Art Nuveau chandelier that looks like someone's insides. But I know one thing; I know there is one room in that heap of a slum you call an apartment that is warmer than all the others. It may be the kitchen or the laundry room. It may the living room or, if you're lucky, the bedroom.
In the midwest, this sort of thing matters.
In my house (insert WHOSE HOUSE RON'S HOUSE ROBOT HOUSE exclamation of your choosing) the warmest room in the entire place is the small downstairs 1/2 bathroom-- A room about 3.5 feet deep and 6 feet long.
The Little Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe lived in a shoe that was bigger than this one room.
Other noteable specs for this room might include the following:
It is 9 feet from the living room television.
It is 6 feet from the phone.
It is 10 feet from a computer with internet.
It is 7 feet from the pantry.
It is, ironically, 4.5 feet from the refrigerator.
It is 5 diagonal feet from the furnace.
As you can see, this room is roughly equidistant from the hottest and the coldest places in the house. It is the hottest place in the house outside of the furnace. Outside of the refrigerator, the coldest place in the house is the sub-arctic ice-hole that is my bedroom...
You can probably guess where this is going...
I am typing this from the downstairs one-half bathroom (henceforth dubbed "Ohio") on a laptop computer.
I do this in Ohio because I enjoy looking at the AccuWeather plug-in at the bottom of my screen and being able to differentiate between the temperature displayed for Washtenaw County and the temperature a thermometer would read if you shoved it up my ass.
To such ends, I've been spending a lot of time in Ohio.
Ohio is now where I read.
Ohio is now where I contemplate the universe.
Ohio is now where I plot the downfall of my enemies.
Ohio is now where I talk to you on the phone.
Ohio is now where I sometimes blog.
And best of all, Ohio is where I do NOT huddle in a shivering mass, watching my frostbitten fingertips crack against the keyboard as I pray for the icy song of hypothermia to finally lull me into oblivion-- which is typically what happens when I spend more than 30 minutes sitting in my room.
In the midwest, this sort of thing matters.
In my house (insert WHOSE HOUSE RON'S HOUSE ROBOT HOUSE exclamation of your choosing) the warmest room in the entire place is the small downstairs 1/2 bathroom-- A room about 3.5 feet deep and 6 feet long.
The Little Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe lived in a shoe that was bigger than this one room.
Other noteable specs for this room might include the following:
It is 9 feet from the living room television.
It is 6 feet from the phone.
It is 10 feet from a computer with internet.
It is 7 feet from the pantry.
It is, ironically, 4.5 feet from the refrigerator.
It is 5 diagonal feet from the furnace.
As you can see, this room is roughly equidistant from the hottest and the coldest places in the house. It is the hottest place in the house outside of the furnace. Outside of the refrigerator, the coldest place in the house is the sub-arctic ice-hole that is my bedroom...
You can probably guess where this is going...
I am typing this from the downstairs one-half bathroom (henceforth dubbed "Ohio") on a laptop computer.
I do this in Ohio because I enjoy looking at the AccuWeather plug-in at the bottom of my screen and being able to differentiate between the temperature displayed for Washtenaw County and the temperature a thermometer would read if you shoved it up my ass.
To such ends, I've been spending a lot of time in Ohio.
Ohio is now where I read.
Ohio is now where I contemplate the universe.
Ohio is now where I plot the downfall of my enemies.
Ohio is now where I talk to you on the phone.
Ohio is now where I sometimes blog.
And best of all, Ohio is where I do NOT huddle in a shivering mass, watching my frostbitten fingertips crack against the keyboard as I pray for the icy song of hypothermia to finally lull me into oblivion-- which is typically what happens when I spend more than 30 minutes sitting in my room.
Labels: art nuveau, icy doom
posted by reno mac @ 3:56 PM
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