throughout the day, furious winds crashed against my window and wailed frightfully like inconsolable Mets' fans at the end of yet another lost season. curious to experience the inclement weather firsthand, i decided to go for a late night jog over the brooklyn bridge. oceanic blunder. i wasn't so much running as i was shoving heavy blocks of brutally cold air out of my path. arctic fangs sank deep into my flesh. midway across, i came to the creepy realization that i was the only person on the bridge. no hyperbole here, freddy, i was alone. a terror attack, i stupidly thought? i envisioned a grizzled Brian Dennehy drawing a bead on me through binoculars growling, "that crazy son-of-a-bitch is gonna get himself killed!" a rogue burst almost coaxed me into the east river; time to head home. i lost contact with my face and lower extremities in the icy gusts. Broken and frozen, I staggered into the bedroom where a hissing radiator breathed fire. The Panamanian lay stretched out on the bed, cloaked only in warmth; a sizzling and perfectly browned sausage ready to be parked aside a few syrup soaked pancakes and devoured by some lucky dog of an early bird. Whether it was the result of recent solar flare activity or simply a case of mistaken identity, a concupiscent curl of the lip announced her friday night intentions. i stared blankly and said nothing. would frostbite force the amputation of any of the important parts I still could not feel? I turned and slunk into the kitchen to fry some bacon.
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