It was, today, 55 degrees in midtown Manhattan. In February. It was 60 last week. Sure, it takes some dips, every now and then, but it's an even 25 degrees warmer than it should be.
This kinda frightens me.
A relatively reliable friend told me that there have been butterfly sightings, at a time and in places where butterflies shouldn't be sighted.
Let's pretend we're living a science fiction film, something like The Day After Tomorrow or The Core or Independence Day. Right about now is when the hunky, unorthodox-but-super-brainy scientist starts to get a weird vibe: There's something not right here.
Said hunk-o-brain then does a whole mess of very quick but totally error-free research and learns that Impending Doom is about to happen. Then he begins the daunting process of getting Someone to Listen. Invariably, he talks to the President and he either doesn't get it or doesn't want to get it until it's too late. (I know, in Independence Day, POTUS does get it and does something about it. Give me this one.)
What's scaring me out of my spats is that we've currently got a commander-in-chief who wouldn't get it...and there would be no convincing him.
Sleep tight.
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