checking in

It's late. It's cold. Pretty darned cold today. The ground that appeared from under the white piles Friday crunches as you walk, whether there's still ice on it or not. I can hardly believe how much I've worn my flap ear hat. A couple of days ago I saw on the 10-day prediction on my phone a high of 61 coming. I tried to believe it. Even with a high chance of rain, it was some pie in the sky. Then today I looked and the highest temp in that range was 48 or something. Something that was way far from 61.

So tonight I see that Fred Phelps is dying. This notion goes with the cold. It gives me a chill. He is a joke to many and a kind of extreme or trope and you could say he's done a lot for the queers in making other people not want to look as bad as him. Now that he's dying, I feel the disease of him again. The chill of the disease of hatred, which seems so likely to be coming from his self-hatred. I mean, some shit had to be driving that. Whether or not you believe the stories about the rest stops on the turnpike.