My ungodly fear of sinkholes has been usurped. How could anything terrify me more than getting swallowed up by Middle Earth, you ask? Look up. They are everywhere:
Killer icicles.
No matter where I go, no matter how hard I try to avoid them, these damn icicles are gunning for me. This one has been taunting me for days:
I would like to think that when one of these frozen daggers finally lands on my noggin, there will be people around to help. Yet with temperatures at Arctic levels, the only folks I have to rely on are these guys:
And they’ve got their own problems.
I am desperate for a season without peril, neurosis, or Charlie Brown buried up to his neck in snow.
Yeah, I’m looking at you, spring.
Call me.
