Ever since I moved to LA, I've been cold.
I moved into my apartment in late January, in the middle of winter, into an apartment with no heat (and no air conditioning), and only a hot water bottle to keep me warm.
Back then, new in LA, it was enough. I wasn't that cold yet. LA still seemed warmer than New York to me.
But with the onslaught of winter in LA, a winter that really feels like winter to me, a winter that feels just as Christmasy as New York, I am blasting the heat.
I sit next to a space heater all day, while regularly turning the office furnace up. Sometimes I wear my coat.
I blast another space heater at night, placed on the hardwood floor, with a faux fur blanket draped across me, the hot water bottle tucked underneath. Sometimes I sleep all night like that, slowly toasting the night away, waking up in a dry, oven-baked room, the tip of my nose thankfully warm.
I seek the heat.
I didn't move to California to be cold; I moved here to be warm, to bask in the sun, to brown and burn and cook and boil and sweat and bake.
But for now, I'll have to do so artificially, as I sit here in my office, gazing out the window at the disappearing sun...
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