From the Entropy blog.
Ah, Saturday, how I’ve missed you.
We’re in the middle of one cold January — one of the coldest in recent memory, I think. As much as I enjoy my shrinking power bills, I hope it doesn’t get any colder, as Philippine homes are not normally built for cold weather. We have no heaters, for instance. And not everyone has hot showers because there is normally no use for them. Plus, I don’t think the homeless enjoy being frozen popsicles on top of being, well, homeless. I still see some of them on the sidewalks of posh Makati streets.
I suppose we’re still better off, weather-wise, to certain places in, say, the U.S., where classes are being called off because of insane wind chill temperatures and such. A twitter friend from Minnesota has already asked me to fedex him some warm weather to him. My literary boyfriend* Neil Gaiman has already packed up and driven south to warmer climes, although from what I hear from the CNN news podcast, the cold is slowly creeping south too, even as far as sunny Florida. And at least our gas supply has not been cut off by Russia, the way it was in Bulgaria, Romania and other countries in Europe.
Cold notwithstanding, life must go on. I have school papers to finish by Monday. Then I have to import my songs to my iPod again, because I accidentally improperly disconnected it from my computer and caused it to go all wonky and had to be reset to factory settings, and so all the content was deleted. Yes, I can automatically sync it to my stuff on my computer through iTunes, but I don’t keep my songs on my hard disk, as it doesn’t have enough room for all 30 gigabytes of media I keep on my iPod. Then there’s the gym. And the cookies I need to make for when I visit relatives next week.
Going to get cracking now. Catch you later.
*Literary boyfriend/girlfriend**: A writer so brilliant so as to give you all sorts of naughty thoughts, but when you meet him/her in person, the best you can do is stammer, “I, uh, uhm. Could you autograph my jeans?”
**Corollary to the literary boyfriend/girlfriend, there is the literary husband/wife. I call dibs on Albert Camus, who has given me a preview of how I will die. (It’s not that morbid, I swear.)