The puddles haven frozen. Since it began to snow on Sunday, I have busted by ass no less than three times. A word to the wise: Dr. Martens are not even remotely effective on ice.
Sunday night was an icy nightmare. I stopped into a bar downtown on my way home to have a few drinks with which to brave the weather. Puddletown winters are always more pleasant with a string drink or two floating in my belly. My reluctance to exit the comfort of heated shelter kept me glued to the bar, sipping on my glass of bourbon that never seemed to empty. At times it would be nearly depleted, but only moments later be replenished by some means I had long lost contact with.
Two hours on the frozen sidewalk along B-side waiting for a bus that never came.
