Spirit Log 9

I must remain master of my personal domain. 
That is, I can’t continue to let my long underwear dictate. 
So far it’s making the decisions regarding my external presentation, 
my routes of option and pretty much all my leisure activities. 
It’s become a part of my psyche that I fear has greater ambitions than its owner. 
An underwear with a hidden agenda. 
A trap door that’s letting it’s own power mongering ego slip in the back door. 
A dictator who’s lust for power and control is running an undercover, undergarment covert coup d’être. 

Let’s see how brave that rascal is when I finish waterboarding him, 
Tide and bound, folded and quartered. 
Keep the long-johns at bay, or at the very least, go back to the Bay buy another pair and restore a balance of power. 

I can’t think of a more balancing food source than hot homemade soup. 
So here we are at The Corner Pocket Cafe in Cartwright warming our bones and our hearts back to playing form over a steaming bowl of Cabbage soup. 
It’s-30 (-45 with that rascally windchill hounding us).
The ball of fire in the sky emits no warmth, just light. 
Warmth is a snowbird, it cannot exist in these temperatures, it’s gone to Arizona
That said it’s a glorious blue sky now after a two hour trip through white out purgatory. 

 So, with cabbage sustenance cursing through my veins, I’ll take on the devious thermal culprit, and put him through the wringer!