Coffee might not be for every morning.

Yesterday, my office's air conditioner did what I have considered doing all too many times in this hellhole and decided to up and quit. Thankfully, our building's sound construction and high-quality insulation kept the office at a temperate 93 degrees. If you're thinking that's not that bad, you're right, provided we're discussing a trip to the beach. If you've never had the misfortune of wearing a three piece suit when the sun has its game-face on, just imagine being a sports team mascot, for eight applause-free hours. So, employing logic (and this story should illustrate why I so rarely do) I decided to show up today in chinos and a polo shirt made from some synthetic material thinner than an eighteen dollar condom.

Thankfully, the maintenance staff took mercy on us and fixed the A/C while we were gone. My boss decided to celebrate in what might very well have seemed like the best option in his age-riddled pile of rot a creative individual might call a brain, he set the thermostat and put on a parka he apparently constantly has in his office. I wonder momentarily if I am dreaming, a cold gust of air to the groin quickly dispels that illusion.
At least I can distract myself by working, I think. I call FPL fifty-two times (yes, I counted) only to receive an equal number of busy signals before being put on hold. For four hours. In Spanish. I feel like there's a drinking game in there somewhere, provided you weigh five-hundred pounds and are Wolverine. I start on other work and realize I have to make out fifteen separate checks to that same horrid company. I would argue that this was irony if I wasn't absolutely sure I had already identified it as bullshit.

I go outside to let off some steam (far from literally, my breath couldn't have been much warmer than freezing). On my way to the bar I find and my fist confronts a particularly obnoxious wall. Fortunately for the wall (and my employment status), it is concrete. Unfortunately for me, my hand is not. Two chugged Martini's later and I realize no amount of ethanol is going to get me warm without being ignited. Luckily for every party involved, my curious hands find no lighter.

I would type more, but I am shivering too much to type with any accuracy and to be honest, I think my efforts will be better spent making a newspaper blanket. Wish me luck, and should I freeze and wake up in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, can y'all at least make sure it's a good one? I'm a picky one as far as those go.