LETTER TEN (and a bit)




I know I just wrote, but I'm very cold and this is all I can do to stop myself from bringing an oil drum in from the street and setting a fire in my kitchen.

I’m fucking freezing.

Today I woke up to a cold house. Since this morning the cold has gotten worse. I wonder which will freeze first, the pipes or me.

Apparently the house’s gas tank, is empty, and there's a blizzard coming in a few days. Yeah, we have a gas tank, like a truck, so our maintenance guy says anyway. Our gas furnace is useless until it gets refilled.

I always knew I would die cold and alone, but I figured it’d be in the woods or on a mountain or something, not in a house in New York City... I’m just kidding. I can handle the cold. “True North, Strong and Free”. I’ve got long underwear and a jacket. I’ll survive.

I hope I survive.

I have school work due soon and I really should be doing that, but after spending the better part of two hours muttering at a blank piece of paper and shivering I’ve decided that today isn’t going to be a productive writing day—so I’m writing you!

What are you up to? How’s Toronto? Is it cold there? I bet it’s cold there.

If I do die, remember me fondly. . . . Burn my journals.

Frostbitten Henry