I can't feel my toes.

I am shaking lightly, but uncontrollably. My fingers feel like thawed sausages, healing from their freeze.

It is winter in Chicago again, and tonite is the first night I have ever felt actual pain because of it. I have hypothermia, a condition where your body temperature, simple put, is just too damn low. It's something that can be mild, like I have now, it can be harsh, or even deadly.

So why was I standing and waiting at the train stop in Rosemont, Illinois, on this cold winter night? Well, it's not so much a long story, but a bad one.

I was planning to see adoxograph tonight. The plan was as usual: I would go to Rosemont via a bus to the Division stop and then via CTA Blue Line. Estimated time of arrival needed to be 9:20p, so estimated time of departure (compensating for bus wait) was 8:10.

I left. I walked to the corner of Wells and Division and turned around before I even got to the stop to go back home to go to the bathroom. I had made death juice (celery + carrot + cucumber + apple) earlier with my new juicer, and, well...yeah. So I left again, and after being asked by this weird kid if I wanted to split a taxi (to which I replied "I think I just saw the bus coming), the bus came, and I rode to the train.

Well, before I got on the train I stopped in this alley to, uh, well, alley piss (or dumpster piss, whichever you prefer). God damn juice.

The train ride was normal. Read my James Burke book of choice, and rode rode rode. A while later, I arrived at the Rosemont stop. Meanwhile, I had received two calls from adoxograph concerning her status. The first was a slight mentioning that this manager Chris was not back yet and that she'd keep me updated. The second call was at 9:14. It was news that Chris had still not come back and that she would be late. Hm. What to do? Cold train stop...juice...I went to that weird corner by the dumpsters at the Rosemont stop that is like an unofficial urinal (made obvious by the holes and strange formations in the snow and repeated appearances of dudes pissing there). All the while I am on my phone frantically harrassing Saige but being too shy and weak to bluntly ask for rescue, calling Cheryl (name changed to protect the monkeys) to no avail (her phone was off and her home phone was busy), pacing into the actual stop to stand under the oh-so-weak heat lamps to try to feel my fingers, and not noticing my toes have stopped talking to me.

The cold took over. Normally only heat can bring me to anger, but this particular night a wave of impatience hit me and the cold brought me shortness of temper. I felt bad the way I darted around the reason I was calling Saige, the way I talked roughly to adoxograph, and the way I didn't bring myself into that heat lamp more. My temperature was dropping as well.

The apex of the night was when I, almost in tears, forfeited, and told adoxograph that my phone was dying and that I was going home. I (dumpster pissed again, then) got back on the next train, after waiting a short while, during which I realized my fingers were much colder than I had realized, and that my toes were to the point of hurting from cold. When I got back on the train it only got worse. The heat on the train fixed my fingers a little, but my toes were bad, and my upper half was starting to cool. I realized (while reading the James Burke book of choice) that I was shivering, and that I had a mild case of hypothermia.

I pondered for a minute the things I could've done with my wasted night. I could have made more juice. I could have watched a movie. I could have cleaned my room. I could have played Diablo. I could have worked on junktext. I could have made Lego things. I could have wrapped a couple belated Christmas presents. I could have shut the fuck up and not worry, because the night is over and it doesn't matter. What matters is the rest of the night. What can I do when I get home?

So I eventually arrived back at the Division stop, and took the bus home. I started the heat (house) and started the heat (stove) on the water (hot chocolate) and the water (ramen noodles). I am watching High Fidelity because I just got it, I am writing this here book, and I am wondering about what the night was and what it could've been.

But what makes this wasted (or not?) night different than any other? I don't know. Probably nothing, but I have no real way of telling. So this night falls into the ever-growing bin of thoughtful nights.

I am now warm. I am fine. Everything is ok, and I have a feeling it would've been despite anything that might've happened this cold night. I am good, once again. My temperature is back up, my fingers seem undamaged, and my toes, well, they're on the way. Goodnight.