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Too Damn Long (and Too Damn Cold)
It’s hard to remember that a few short weeks ago, people in the Northeast were enjoying temperatures in the 60s—and disquieted by it. It has been below freezing here for weeks—at least it’s felt like weeks—and after dealing with the random spates of fever that have popped up after forcing my too tired self outside for too damn long, the chapped and bleeding lips, the stiff hands that have had trouble taking notes, the ever larger portion of my tiny student budget going to coffee, and the snow that blew into town earlier this week, I’m starting to seriously consider buying a house somewhere in the southern hemisphere one day so I never have to subject myself to cold weather ever again.
(Not that I have the money, of course. But a girl can dream.)
And speaking of the southern hemisphere and dreaming, I have been daydreaming about Australia all day. It hit me a few days ago that it’s been three years—three years—since I kissed my grandmother goodbye, got on that Qantas flight, fell in love with Tim Tams, used celsius and metric, learned to scuba dive, and despaired that I wouldn’t ever feel completely at home here ever again. I’m sure it’d affect me a lot less if I’d remembered this so close to today, the anniversary of my lost day, but… still. It’s crazy.
I suppose it’s really true: everything becomes normal after a while, even the most remarkable of experiences. I wish I knew whether I find that comforting or just plain sad.
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