We're on the 10th floor, so at least we're above the pile-up. I hope.
So the Apocalypse in blowing-ice-crystal form is in progress, and we're stuck inside our Worcester apartment because the governor sez we gotta. Perfect, say I.
Having survived the Walmart Thunderdome with an actual untrampled loaf of bread in hand (French toast is on, kiddies!) and having further received comfirmation that neither my nor rain_herself's employers are hard-nosed psychopaths insistent on nose-thumbing the weather gods, my current plans for the next 36 hours are as follows:
Having survived the Walmart Thunderdome with an actual untrampled loaf of bread in hand (French toast is on, kiddies!) and having further received comfirmation that neither my nor rain_herself's employers are hard-nosed psychopaths insistent on nose-thumbing the weather gods, my current plans for the next 36 hours are as follows:
- Not setting the alarm. At all.
- Cocoa / red wine / whiskey, dependent on which phase of the Apocalypse has kicked in.
- Snuggling with rain_herself, because what is the point of simultaneously having a pretty girl and a snowstorm if you can't curl up together under a mound of ill-matched blankets and ignore the ravages of Time? What, indeed?
- Tweeting with fellow Apocalypse survivors, and/or not tweeting and making the Illinois relatives panic.
- Continuing our pre-Oscar movie marathon, or at least the bits we can do at home. The official goal is all best Picture/Director/Acting nominees (except Into the Woods because I'm pretty sure even Meryl Streep is saying enough already); we've hit Boyhood, Wild, Gone Girl, The Imitation Game and The Theory of Everything so far, which leaves a ways to go yet.
- Snuggling with rain_herself some more, because if the End of Days doesn't allow me to spoon my wife, I sure as Shinola ain't going. Let it be said: she spoons divinely.
- Picking up Vivian my guitar, who I'm pretty sure misses me.
- Avoiding pants like the plague on society that they are. They should be ashamed.