It’s cold outside. The polar vortex has been camped outside my window for the past two days shrieking, gibbering, and making faces at me. Why it decided to make the journey to southeastern Virginia is one of life’s unsolved mysteries. The weatherman says that normal temperatures are on the way. The thermometer registered sixteen degrees overnight, an encouraging trend.

It’s January, by far the longest month of the year. The calendar stops at thirty one days for some unexplained reason. I’ve lived through enough Januarys to know they last anywhere from fifty to seventy days. January is sort of like Easter; hard to pin down. Of course, Easter can’t even commit to a particular month, always jumping between March and April. In case you were wondering, July is the shortest month of the year. It lasts about twelve days on average unless you’re vacationing at the beach. Then it’s even shorter.

What was I talking about? Right, winter. I’ve finished this entry and the weather is still cold. Today would be a perfect day to do some writing. I think I will.

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