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Ang Enet
Friday, February 20, 2009

There’s this scene in the film version of The Secret Garden (which, incidentally, happens to be a novel I’d read a gabizijillion times when I was a kid; isolated brats do like to read about themselves) wherein Colin, the snotty Victorian hypochondriac lad, is immersed in a tub of ice cubes. I used to love watching that scene, because it made me feel lucky not to be a snotty Victorian hypochondriac lad trapped in a manor in the nippy moors and, instead, be a snotty Ramos brownout-era wench trapped in a cramped compound in the scorching tropics. An ice bath, therefore, would actually be something I could look forward to, would be something that would not cause intense physical and psychological backlash but, on the other hand, would be just damn good.

Why am I writing this? Because I am no fan of summer, and it is summer, and it is HOT, Satan’s armpit HOT, and I have not had a bath since yesterday, and I am most likely teeming with gabizijillions of tiny Warm Gremlins of Filth, and oh god oh god a bath a bath a bath an ice cube bath with soap and shampoo and an indefinite stretch of evening please god help me it’s so so WARM.



posted by marguerite @ 11:13 AM

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Marguerite.
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