There is something about the rain that brings out the best in me. The colder it gets, the more romantic fiction I read. I break out my striped toe socks and my oldest, warmest blanket, put on a pot of coffee and start a fire. There is something about curling up by the fire, a book filled with adventure and love in hand that warms you to your toes.
I also love when it is cold enough that the heater comes on. I remember how, as a small child, I would stand on the couch under the vent and dance in the heat, trying to get as close to the ceiling as possible. I love the smell of the musty ducts, the sound of air rumbling through the walls, the warm breeze across my cheeks.
I found my old paintings today. Victorian style calligraphy, inspirational quotes and words on wood and canvas. It reminded me that my room is so unfinished, inhabitable, uncomfortable. I think it's because I don't want to get attached to this place. I want to leave so badly that I don't want to settle into living here.
I've noticed that whenever I meet a new girl that sparks my interest, she changes where I want to live, where I want to finish college. I want to pick up and move and place myself in her life. It's like I want to emulate everyone I have an attraction to. There is must be something wrong with that. I need to live my own life, not flit through others.
I've gone all day wearing only one sock because my left foot kept getting hot. I took the day off to just doze and read, and it felt spectacular.
(I love seeing quaint little houses covered in Christmas lights.)