The office where I work has a powerful air-conditioner. It can preserve a mummy for long years, probably. Flies fall down on the floor like small snow flocks. Now I know what's like to be a dead pig in a butcher fridge.
My office mate, Max, can't stand the hot, the reason why he turns on the air conditioning on the coldest degree. My hands gets as cold as ice. This bone-chilling cold almost kills me!
Ok, that's not the New York City winters, that made Paul Simon bleed and want to come back home. But he was used to snow, and I'm not. I was born in a tropical contry, almost with monkeys crossing the street and indians playing drums downtown.
Gently, I tried to convince Max to avoid the f****** air conditioning. But, again with Paul Simons' words, still the man hear what he wants to hear and disregard the rest mmm mmm.
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