I detest the arid cold of
The dry air is, however, the perfect conductor of static electricity. And at five o'clock in the morning, deep under the covers, my fingers become electrodes, sparking mini lightshows. When I pull the micro fleece blanket away from the sheet, a variable electric storm brews, flickering the tiniest lightning bolts and zapping my skin. It doesn't hurt (except when I super charge!), but it feels like a little electric butterfly looking for nectar on my skin. This control I suddenly have--the power to be electric--must be what Benjamin Franklin felt when he tied the key to the kite…wait, is that a real story? Maybe I'm more like Arnold Palmer, golf club outstretched as the cumulonimbus clouds roll in, just waiting for lightning to strike.
That's figurative lightning, right?
To be safe, and to save my membranes from an untimely demise, I bought a humidifier.