Antarctica and the rainbow trout Cadillac

I find myself feeling plucky as I embark upon this, my latest, adventure. Earlier in the week my sweet Alice had promised to buy me a Cadillac if I would agree not to turn on the heater this winter. I accepted under the terms that I may paint it to resemble the markings of the majestic, wild, rainbow trout. The bargain has been struck and I present to you the following diary so that history may remember my remarkable journey.

January 4, 2013 

10 a.m.

I awake to the sound of the cold wind whipping across the frozen tundra of my living room. Quickly remembering the day ahead of me, I don three different shirts, gloves and a hat. I then use my frosty, visible, breath to help me find true north. I head out to the kitchen for a hot cup of coffee to warm my frozen bones.

10:15 a.m.

I woke Alice for her day at work with an accurate (at least as I saw it) weather report which I demonstrated by showing her my trembling hands and chattering jaw. The cold weather must have already affected her brain because she said that i was “whining” and that I should “grow a pair” or “you would be much warmer if you put some pants on.” Clearly the pratterings of someone deep in the throws of stage four frost dementia. It will be in my best interest to let her get ready for work, quietly, whilst I huddle beneath every blanket we own.

12 noon

I fear the cats have suffered from frost dementia as well. They are prancing about the house without clothing of any kind like it is the middle of summer. Best to avoid them now. They will be unpredictable and may soon become dangerous. The heater sits on the wall, mocking me. “Turn me on, Paul.” it laughs, “Save your own life.” I can resist. I must resist.

1:45 p.m.

Alice called me on her first break. I immediately realize that it would be best not to let her know how bad it has gotten here. I walk into the kitchen so she will not hear the cracks and pops of the fire I have started on the couch. I have set fire to all of the curtains. It was the only way to stay alive. Poor dear, she talks like nothing is happening. She talks like she is at work, having a nice day. That is how frost dementia kills. For all I know she could be lost is a snow drift.

3 p.m. 

There are polar bears in the house. Tiny ones. They have killed the cats and are wearing their skins. They are indistinguishable from real cats in every way except one. The way they look at me. Hungry.

4 p.m.

Alice called me at lunch. I never let on that I had barricaded myself in the bathroom so that I would not be eaten by bears. She told me that she had gotten mini tacos for lunch. I told her that I was making spaghetti. If it had not been for my uncanny ability to make microwave sounds, she could have very well seen through my ruse. The bears outside have taken to mimicking cats to lure me into a false sense of security. Beyond the meows of death I can still hear the heater’s cries. Temptation persists. I. must. not. surrender. I am getting hungry, though.

5 p.m.

I have found a way to fool the bears.

I will become one of them.

I have smudged ashes on my nose until it was black and am wearing one of Alice’s bras on my head so that I would look like a bear. I have also written “BEAR” on my forehead, just in case.

It seems to have worked. The “catbears” seem to take no notice of me. I have become one of them. I passed the test of eating food from their bowl. They have accepted me as one of their own. Maybe as their king. I have gathered them around me for warmth. We are watching an episode of Sherlock. Sherlock is really good.

6 p.m. 

My worst fears have come true. The frost dementia has affected me. I must warn others of my plight. The neighbors must know that this could happen to them, too. I feel crazed and unstable. I look even worse. I must let them know that I am not a threat. But how?


I am now off to warn my neighbors about the dangers of prolonged cold exposure. I am naked. This will show them that I mean no harm, that I have nothing to hide. I may never see my beautifully painted car, but that’s o.k. I have a higher calling now.

If I do not return, tell my wife that I loved her and that I have hidden all of her shoes.

Just in case.



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