It could just be the coldness of my black heart spreading to the rest of my body, but I think the heater is broken. As I sit here, penning this little menagerie of words, my left hand has succumbed to frostbite and fallen off. I will not cry over the loss. I never used that hand much anyway, and the break was painless. The hand lies at my feet. The fingers twitch ever so often. I cannot be bothered to to stare long enough to find out whether it's trying to give a shy wave or make an obscene gesture commonly known as "the finger".
I should not joke about frostbite or losing limbs, should I? Topics which fall in the categories of bodily harm, severe illness and death were very much taboo in my home while I was growing up. My mother would go ballistic if we (me and some beasts my mother claims are not only human but my siblings) so much as thought about... well, "dangerous" things.
I'm exaggerating. Of course my mother cannot read minds, but it damn well seemed that way when I was five.
Okay, maybe it still is that way.
What was I talking about? Oh yes! The broken heater. It's very cold in here. I'm wearing a thick ugly sweater and gloves - on both hands. The purpose of putting a glove on a dismembered hand is non-existent, but I figure it would be jealous and likely to kill me in my sleep if I did not.
Images of romanticized homeless people and trashcan fires suddenly appear in my mind. I'm contemplating starting a fire in a pot now. I doubt whether it is even that dangerous. The worst I could do is set the building on fire. However, if my apartment is anything to go by, the other tenants will be ecstatic I heated their rooms. I'll be the God of Warmth and Death. Death, because obviously everyone in the building will die from the annoying fire alarm bursting our blood vessels and melting our brains. Oh, the fire might help kill us too.
Regardless, the building will only catch afire if I exhibit my extreme clumsiness and kick the pot over. It's impossible to be clumsy if you can hardly move in the first place. I'm frozen in place. I might even add my detached left hand to the pot. It would make a lovely post-Christmas-pre-New Year's roast.
So, I shall light my pot-fire.
And die from smoke inhalation. Damn.