by MustBTVDay thirty of furlough. I woke up at 0445, which, in hindsight, might’ve been my body’s survival instinct rather than ambition. The temperature outside? Thirty-nine degrees. Somewhere, somehow, someone clearly forgot to pay the Texas heating bill. I’d file a complaint, but I think the entire state is in the same group chat right now asking, “What in the frostbitten hell?”
I made a beeline for the kitchen, half-asleep and wrapped in what I can only describe as “every hoodie I own.” The Starbucks White Chocolate Mocha felt less like a drink and more like life support. Remington followed close behind, clearly offended by the concept of cold weather. She stuck her nose out the back door, glared into the frigid abyss, and immediately revoked her outdoor privileges for the morning.
Mittens has taken up a new post on top of the dryer, the highest, warmest point in the Living Room Republic, while Tabby has vanished completely, likely cocooned somewhere with a blanket and a personal vendetta against winter. I keep staring at the thermostat, willing it to rise like a miracle. It hasn’t worked yet. The house is quiet, save for the hum of the heater trying its best to impersonate competence.
Morale check: frozen but functional. Coffee hot, pets warm, resolve steady. The Living Room Republic endures the Great Texas Chill, armed with caffeine, sarcasm, and whatever heat’s left in the vents.
