It’s Cold in Colorado

Therefore, we spend our time wisely collecting dead wood to burn. It keeps us warm. My cheeks turn red and hot. My fingers thaw. My contacts get dry. And I pretend that it didn’t just start flurrying outside.

But I don’t just sit there, cozy on the couch under a homemade sleeping bag, circa 1970-something as I try to read something deep and tragic and brimming with big words. I earn my keep. I cut down trees. I skillfully operate an 18-inch chainsaw. I conquer the Black Forest.

And I do it all for the glory of riding shotgun in a 1978 Ford Ranger while listening to The Beatles’ hits on the 8-track.

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