Fans Are Stupid

I have no idea what everyone else’s morning routine is, I imagine that some of you wake up and kick a baby or do some self -mutilation “just to feel alive,” but one of the key parts of my wake up routine is when I check the thermometer against the general condition of the sky outside. This gives me a fairly accurate gauge of how good (or bad) the coming day is going to be. Take mid August for example, I can’t remember the exact day(s) but I remember looking at the thermometer making a note of the 89 degree temperature (this is at 8:20 am mind you) and then looking at the clouds- grey, dark, gloomy, but not a chance of rain- and thinking “Well this day is going to suck.” Before any of you say anything, yes, I know, it is a psychological freak out I’m doing to myself- if I think that the day is going to be terrible then the day is going to be terrible. It’s the same thing as people going to haunted hotels and then hearing the “ghost” the next time their boyfriend farts.

Woman: Honey! Did you hear that?!

Man: (groggily) Hear… what darling?

Woman: It was the ghost! Oh my god it made a noise like it was ripping up something!

Man: (sniffs the air) Darling, don’t blame the ghosts for your farts. And go back to sleep.

Ba dum pish! Back on subject though, for good or bad checking the thermometer is part of my daily wake up routine. If you don’t like it, I have 14 lemons for you to suck on. The problem, aside from psychological scare tactics, with this morning routine is realizing what a flaming moron you have been the night before. Let us take today’s adventure with the thermometer as an example. The thermometer reads 48 degrees at 8:30 am. Since it is rapidly approaching winter, and since the planet cools down at night, one can easily assume that since the sun has been up the temperature has increased some from its lows of the evening which easily could have fallen as low as 34 degrees. But we’ll say it was hovering around a nice 40 degrees.

Now how does this make me a moron? Well, when I sleep I’ve gotten into the habit of needing some sort of white noise- particularly the kind of white noise produced by air being moved for heating or cooling purposes. It is very soothing, and I sleep like a baby if I have a fan running. Mmm. Also, my parents get up earlier than I and use the exercise machines, and feed our dogs, and just kind of make noise- so I sleep with my door closed to keep that noise from waking me. And as some of you know *WINK* I tend to sleep in just my boxers, or nothing at all- while using one (or fewer!) blankets on my bed.

I took the thermometer into my room, it was 51 degrees when I woke up in it and I had a fan blowing on me. I’ve been out of that room for about 21 minutes now and I can just now safely say that I have full feeling back in my hands. I will spare you the horrors of my morning piss, suffice to say a lot of shaking was involved. I don’t really think that this is my fault, in fact I choose to blame it toally on my fan.

Dear Cynthia,

We have had a wonderful time together, haven’t we? I remember picking you up from Wal-Mart, almost six years ago now. I saw you at the end of the fan isle, hanging out with all the other slutty fans, the only one who wasn’t so drunk as to think you could get 50 dollars of drinks out of me- the only one who wasn’t so big that you wouldn’t fit in my car, but you had the blowing power of 10 fans. You were perfect. In fact, as soon as I took you home with me you made all the other boys (and fans!) jealous. You kept me cool all summer long, with your gentle soothing blowing lulling me off to dream about puppies, and robots, and dead roommates. They were great times.

Even in the winter you were there for me! I could use you to circulate warm air around the room, or as a white noise machine to help me sleep, I even turned you face up and used you as a plate a few times. Truly, you could do no wrong. You saw lots of other women come and go, but no matter what I always came back to you. None of them love me the way you do, none of them understood me like you.

But, inevitably, things haven’t been so great lately. You’ve gotten a little off your game. You know how demanding I am of my women, and that little squeak you make every 40th rotation (believe me, I counted) is slowly driving me insane. To compensate, you seem to have increased your blowing power on even the lowest of settings- which I would have appreciated when I was younger but now I just find it slutty. Tone it down, please.  I know we’ve had a lot of great times together darling- really, truly- but I think it is time that I saw another fan. One that makes me feel asleep, one that won’t try to do her job so hard that I wake up shivering- and can’t get warm for 40 minutes. One who will- for heaven’s sake- take a bath every once in a while.

I will miss you darling.




About kylock

Man, biographies are really hard to write because sometimes you just don't know what to write about and then you ramble on pointlessly for a while about your hobbies (video games, reading, programming) and end up boring your readers because they expect something witty and insightful (there are only two ways to save money, neither of which involves hookers) and then readership falls off and you cry yourself to sleep.
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One Response to Fans Are Stupid

  1. Marie says:

    Brandon has to have a stupid white noise fan too. It froze me to death this morning because we washed our blanket, so we just had the top-sheet (and my tiny fleece throw that doesn’t cover my feet). So he turned it off when he went to work, but I was still cold. Fail. I’m just going to buy him an effing white noise machine and be done with it.

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