You’re as cold as ice.

Actually, I’M cold as ice. If I bumped my knee on the coffee table right now, it would shatter into a million pieces, because it is now a frozen solid block of ice.

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It is stupid cold today. The wind is gusting with a vengeance. It feels like a million tiny daggers ripping through my body. I need more pants. On. I need more pants on. It will take me at least one hour to thaw out. I brought No Balls Rals to the dog park today for some exercise so that I wouldn’t have to play with him myself at home later while I’m watching 14 consecutive episodes of Dr. 90210.

For the first time ever, we arrived and there was not a single other canine at the park. Probably because most people realized that glaciers were about to sail into Eagle County and hypothermia isn’t on most peoples’ agendas on a casual Sunday. After standing around waiting for about ten minutes and chattering my teeth like someone on too many prescription medications and a gallon of medium roast, a gaggle of dogs finally showed up and they ran their little hearts out. Meanwhile, I suffered from frostbite and lack of circulation to my frozen extremities.

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My creamer intake continues to escalate. I am spiraling out of control. I have bought two liter-size jugs of it within four days. This is not normal creamer consumption, I am almost sure of it. It has become my heroin. This French vanilla elixir of life has got me by the balls. I’m going to need an Intervention. (I’ll resist help 100% of the way).

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I spend a lot of time playing Zynga word games on my phone. Mainly Hanging With Friends and Words With Friends. Since I am a cheap ass and refuse to pay for these games in order to get ad-free playing time, I am continually bombarded with advertisements during my ass-whooping gaming sessions. I used to get a lot of ads for “increasing your battery life” and “Zynga Poker,” but lately it has strictly been online dating websites. Every time. What is Zynga trying to say? That because I play word games on my phone for so many hours a day, I couldn’t possibly have a life? Haha.

They’re right.

WELL, time to go hack my lungs up. I seem to have caught some sort of a cough. I’m not happy about it, but what can you do.

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“What are those big jugs called that you put water in?  …Oh yeah, water jugs.”

 

 

 

El Nuevo Año.

I know today is New Year’s, because I have seen at least six Facebook status updates along the lines of, “No cell phone” or “Dropped my phone in the toilet.” Ringing in the new year with keg stands, several dozen bags of Franzia, Rumpleminz shots, and gallons upon gallons of cheap champagne is a recipe for cellular disaster. There’s no way around it. You’re either going to stumble into the bathroom with your Droid in your back pocket, crash down onto the toilet with your pants halfway down and dump your phone straight into the toilet bowl, or you’re going to lose it in the street on your drunken rampage back from the bars to your apartment and it’s going to get run over by a Toyota Camry, never to be seen again. You just need to accept it. That’s why my number one new year’s resolution is always to get myself a new and improved cell phone. You should do the same.

The temperature yesterday was subzero. Absolutely abominable. The high was zero degrees. 0. The windchill factor was -26.  That’s not enough degrees. Our new year’s eve afternoon was spent snowboarding at Ski Cooper in Leadville. I prepared for the polar arctic weather by layering as much as was feasibly possible. My getup included an Under Armour shirt, a thermal, my North Face fleece jacket, and my normal Bonfire snowboarding coat, a pair of Under Armour thermal pants, another pair of pajama pants, my Gortex snowboarding pants, a pair of snowboarding socks, a turtle neck that covered my neck and face, my Burton Oven Mitt gloves, hand warmers, foot warmers, and a partridge in a pear tree.

I was freezing.

Within minutes, my toes had lost all feeling, and were aching inside my boots. My fingertips were solid blocks of ice, and my barely exposed nose and cheekbones were frostbitten, red, and throbbing after every run down the mountain. Hypothermia was the new year’s special this year. I will never recover.

I think I have poor circulation. No matter what I do, my hands and feet are always frozen solid. As we speak, I have my legs under the covers of my toasty bed, and my feet are still chilled to the bone. In an attempt to raise my core body temperature overall in hopes of spreading comforting heat to my colder extremities, I layer up my torso as much as humanly possible without restricting my movement by turning myself into Randy from  A Christmas Story.

Until next time, lads.

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“I’m about to eat weed candy that is known to make people hallucinate. This is shaping up to be either my best or worst Christmas ever.”

Anti-Virus.

It has truly become a full time job for me to block stupid applications on Facebook. I don’t need to play Mafia Wars or Cafe World for entertainment–I have hundreds of skanks and people from high school who I hate and got REALLY fat to stalk. If I feel like playing computer games, I’ll peruse Yahoo, not download two dozen virus-like Facebook applications that pollute my page AND publish stories on everyone else’s news feeds informing them how big of a douche I am for