Fasten your seatbelts, blogreaders, for an unnerving tale of personal suffering and almost horrendous consequences on an innocent life. Let me regale you a tale of how I almost lost zero limbs to actual frostbite, and instead just got really really cold because I’m a weirdo. With a love for clickbait titles. Obviously.
So. All throughout my life I have always had immense respect for people who excel at being comfortable pretty much anywhere. The kings and queens of sleepovers. The rulers of spontaneity. The wizards of camping, and couch-surfing and housesitting. The fearless, the daring, the uncaring-for-having-to-have-things-a-certain-way-ers. Gods among us mere mortals with stuck routines and unbendable rules. The people for whom ‘mi casa es su casa’ is actually something they can work with, instead of an empty saying.
I. am not like that.
Feeling at home anywhere you are is a quality that you’re either born…
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