I came to the realization recently that I write because I like to. Because I enjoy the kind of picture that words can form in my head, and I like generating those words to form the pictures in others heads, and I like generating the words to express what pictures are in my head. It thrills me to see the words of my own pictures. So I sit here, at my desk, at my computer, freezing because the heat is broken in my apartment. Yes, Virginia, it gets cold in Los Angeles, and my roommates have neglected to call the repairman because, hell, they're moving out in three weeks and spend 80% of the time with their girlfriends now anyways, what do they care? Me, I'm temporarily homeless, and I hate being cold. The landlord for my new place told me today that the person whose apartment I'm taking has told him she's not moving out of state after all, so I sit here, shivering because it's my home right now and I shouldn't have to wear a jacket in my own damn home, hanging on until the landlord gets back to me on Wednesday to tell me what's up. Never mind the fact that I already signed a lease and gave him a deposit check so my mind should be reassured that there's no way he can back out even though I don't have copies of any of that because I foolishly thought that this guy would be trustworthy because of the rigamorale he put me through in order for me to get the place, that since I'm dating a law student whose entire family is made up of lawyers that all like me and will gladly serve as my legal pitbulls, never mind that my compulsive behavior to plan things ahead of time so I have everything worked out seamlessly is screaming for me to work things out now so I can reserve movers and make the appropriate arrangements for utilities. No, never mind all of that, I'm sitting here in the twilight of a dimly lit room, shivering and thinking to myself, I have nothing to complain about. What I'm going through does not even compare to the hell of war, not even the dramatized hell of war I'm watching on these Band of Brothers DVDs. The Battle of the Bulge. A fierce battle that was the turning point in the Allied invasion. Months spent living in holes in the ground in the freezing cold of a French forest near some little worthless town called Bastogne with no winter clothes, little ammunition, little food and few medical supplies. My grandfather was there. He fought. He survived. And I'm here because of it, and as my mind turns back to the Bastogne on the TV in my room and my memories of the time I actually visited the real Bastogne, I wonder how much of my shivering is sympathetic cold. On a completely unrelated note, if you have any desire to go see that awful Ashton Kutcher movie The Butterfly Effect, don't. Ashton doesn't need your money, he needs to slip into obscurity. Instead, read the Ray Bradbury short story that started it all, that actually coined the phrase "butterfly effect," that was the basis for one of my favorite Simpsons Halloween episodes, that haunted me for years after I read it in a high school English class because one of the subjects my mind likes to twist around when I can't stop thinking is temporal mechanics and causality. Then think about seeing the movie coming out this summer that's based directly on the story. I guarantee it'll be better than any Ashton Kutcher film ever could be.