We are well into November by now, the calendar tells me, and yet the stupid fucking weather forecast for New Wye has temperatures in the 70s this week. It is a goddamned crime; I tell you. This frustrates me more than I can adequately describe — after a summer of humidity and heat in the 90s and 100s, I still have not managed to stop sweating. Fucking November and it is still humid. I still have the air conditioning on. It is on RIGHT THIS SECOND, in fact, at 10:25 at night. My hair is still curly and frazzled from the wet, locker-room-esque air, and has been for as long as I can remember. I am about ready to murder someone.
All of this makes the sweater-dress I purchased today seem a very ill-considered decision indeed. Nonetheless, it is very cute:
And it will look excellent with my knee-high leather boots (provided I ever get the chance to wear them again).
In spite of the extremely horrible and unseasonable weather, I am still feeling very wintery myself. It is the time of year — appropriate temperatures or not — to curl up on the couch with a blanket and a huge mug of hot coffee and have cozy, wintery, semi-sad thoughts. Goddamn it all, I am determined to do this. My friend Golightly and I were discussing the appropriate music for this in the car today while listening to The Decemberists, and we both agreed that they are an ideal band for such a situation. Go listen to a few of my favorites and see if you disagree.
I was originally feeling the need to make this post all rambly and long, but I have just realized that I have a whole big stupid article I assigned for tomorrow that I have not even read yet. OOPS. I’d better get to that.