Iron Lung 2.0

Posted up in what I like to admire as my Iron Lung. As the snow floats outside winter's window pane and my fingertips unfreeze from Jack Frost's handshake, I melt into the carpet. Wrapped in my Snuggie on a chilled winter's night, I sweat out the Hawk's grip. I rage against the cold and become reborn like a bear gathering and storing and hibernating. Sports on the TV, the electric heater at my feet, cranking BTU's. The points of my toes are in direct array with the thermal rays. The secret ingredient is the warmth of my ladies that I am surrounded by. They hover over me, angelically, like nurses nursing me into a sleepy trance. Their end game is to coax me into half-sleep so they can nab the remote from my frosted grip and change the channel on the television set. I usually don't make my eyes open through the second half of any Sixer's game. Maybe for the better so I can't see Embiid commit offensive fourth quarter turnovers. Albeit, I am surrounded by love and warmth, from the heart and electrically. This is my zone, my full court press. My rejuvenation chamber, my Iron Lung.