I'm. Cold.

My heater is broken. I have on two pairs of warm fuzzy socks, a sweatshirt and a jacket and my warmest pair of sweatpants, under two blankets. 80 degrees is cool to me, so freaking 63 is killing me.

The good news is that I can play out two scenarios:

1. I'm Jane Austen in England in the winter of 1793(ish) and I'm writing all my good stuff.

2. It's 2013, the Mayans were so totally right and my survival depends on me using my stuffed animal (Mr. Whale) as my only source of warmth, and I have to survive the night in order to live (makes sense). Oh and I'm in Antarctica, and the penguins are afraid of Mr. Whale because, let's face it, he's a whale, and the real ones eat them/play with them.