Oh my gosh it is cold. I know I am predisposed to sweat and 100-degree temperatures, being from Alabama, but my tolerance to the cold has disappeared completely. Of course, it could be that I’m here in my apartment, which is heated only by a 1950s-vintage space heater that I got from my grandmother years ago. When I start it up, the aged fan inside makes this horrible screeching sound like someone raping a harmonica. Eventually, the fan gets into a rhythm and starts blowing the heat out, creating a nice little two-foot by two-foot bubble of hot air. I’m sitting here trying to write my law school essay, and I can see my breath. My fingers are cold and numb and I can barely hold the ice-cold pen. I’m wearing four layers, one of which is a down jacket. When I walk from room to room, I’ve got to carry my pathetic little space heater with me and keep it right by my legs, which ends up making my calves extremely hot even though the rest of my body is almost frozen. Yesterday I put some deer meat out on my kitchen counter to thaw, and it didn’t. Once again, I had to use the space heater to warm the kitchen up in order to thaw the meat. What a weird season.