Nope, still no heat in this house. Nothing but green wet wood that WILL NOT BURN, and the usually reliable woodstove is inconceivably ornery. (“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. . . .”)

It’s supposed to get down to eleven degrees tonight (“These go to eleven.”) so after class today I have to go to WalMart (Noooooooooooo. . . . .) and buy an electric space heater. (I’m going to try to heat the universe.) (Beginning with this room.)

Stupid furnace.

I think the thing that makes me maddest is that I am usually FANTASTIC with the one-match-fire. Have I lost my touch? All my life, I have been really, really good at making the wood burst into flames, with one, single, solitary little match. Soaking wet wood, green wood, weird unlabel-able wood. . . it didn’t matter. One match in my hands and it erupted into flames. I have even done the unthinkable, and cheated with charcoal, here. Nothing. What’s happening wit dis? I was FAMOUS for one-match-fires, big ones, long-lasting ones, huge brilliant bursts of enduring heat. (Oh, yeah, make of it what you will. . . .)

Heh.

Not this time, and I don’t like it.

I can’t wait to get to the college; THEY’VE got heat. I hope.