Like I Just Don't Care

My Minnesotan mind is blown. In the middle of December, on my way to work, I can smell roses. What is this paradisaical climate? I'm used to everything being dead and brown for at least seven months out of the year. What sort of effect will all this sunshine and foliage have on my worldview? Will I smile at random and see everything as totally fine, all day long? Will I achieve gracious contentment? Will I stop expecting the worst and being unnerved by good fortune? Who will wash my clothes when I am running around happily naked on the streets of San Francisco, waving my arms like I just don't care? How will the people live? How will the economy go on with my excess labor left unextracted? How will you, dear reader, learn of my outcome with my laptop left to gather dust? There will be no one to type away to you of my travels, you may have to find out through other, more obsolescent means, such as the telephone, letter-writing, or even travel. Though you could email my housemates, assuming I'm in this house, not wandering the beaches of the Miller-Knox Shoreline watching gulls peck at the waves. I'll be on top of the hills slowly and happily starving. Waving my arms like I just don't care. (I reiterate.) Where will the people live? Who will feed them? I'd better stay and feed them.