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I'm walking down Avenue C, bundled up in my coat and gloves. It's not that cold - 50 or so and no wind - but mother dearest insists and I oblige to avoid conflict. I'm always freezing anyways.

There's someone kneeling in the mud on the median, surrounded by little plastic pots of plants waiting to blossom. At home, the world is barren and anxious for snow, but here, the leaves are still red and I guess flowers can still bloom. I can't help but scoff at the signs that warn of ice on bridges. I bet these people don't even know that snow is supposed to stick to the ground when it falls. If it falls. Today it's raining. In December.

I wear yellow high-tops when it rains. They're so bright that they almost glow, and that light scares away the rainy day blues. Yellow keeps my head on straight. The flowers they're planting are pink. I haven't seen any yellow flowers yet here. So much for the yellow rose of Texas. When I made that rose out of yellow Play-Doh and showed Erin and Chicago, Chicago laughed at the coincidence, but Erin didn't even make the connection. Funny how we don't know things about ourselves that seem obvious to the rest of the world. I wonder what the gardeners think of my yellow shoes. I wonder if they notice. Wonder if they have any idea how ridiculous it is to plant pink flowers on the first of December.

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