2026-04-24, 14:44
I don’t know who I angered.
I don’t know what ancient tavern spirit I offended.
But clearly, someone — or something — has decided I must suffer.
Because out of nowhere…
from absolutely no visible source…
comes a blast of air so cold it could refrigerate a mammoth.
FWOOOOOOSH.
Right at me.
ONLY at me.
Like the tavern itself exhaled directly onto my soul.
I look around.
No open windows.
No door swinging.
No fan.
No vent.
Nothing.
Just me…
my corner table…
and a draft colder than my reputation.
I pull my jacket tighter — the draft gets stronger.
I lean forward — it follows me.
I lean back — it adjusts.
This isn’t air.
This is a targeted attack.
The tender walks by and says,
“Temperature fluctuation, sir.”
Temperature fluctuation.
TEMPERATURE FLUCTUATION.
This isn’t a fluctuation.
This is the North Pole doing a drive‑by.
My beer is shivering.
My lighter refuses to spark out of protest.
Even the GenXTribe cloth is fluttering like it’s trying to escape.
And the worst part?
Nobody else feels it.
The waiter walks past, perfectly warm.
The bartender is sweating.
The alley cat strolls in, yawns, and leaves like the climate is fine.
Meanwhile I’m sitting here like a frozen gargoyle, trying not to turn into a tavern‑themed ice sculpture.
If this draft keeps up, I’m filing a complaint.
A formal one.
With diagrams.
And wind‑speed measurements.
I don’t know what ancient tavern spirit I offended.
But clearly, someone — or something — has decided I must suffer.
Because out of nowhere…
from absolutely no visible source…
comes a blast of air so cold it could refrigerate a mammoth.
FWOOOOOOSH.
Right at me.
ONLY at me.
Like the tavern itself exhaled directly onto my soul.
I look around.
No open windows.
No door swinging.
No fan.
No vent.
Nothing.
Just me…
my corner table…
and a draft colder than my reputation.
I pull my jacket tighter — the draft gets stronger.
I lean forward — it follows me.
I lean back — it adjusts.
This isn’t air.
This is a targeted attack.
The tender walks by and says,
“Temperature fluctuation, sir.”
Temperature fluctuation.
TEMPERATURE FLUCTUATION.
This isn’t a fluctuation.
This is the North Pole doing a drive‑by.
My beer is shivering.
My lighter refuses to spark out of protest.
Even the GenXTribe cloth is fluttering like it’s trying to escape.
And the worst part?
Nobody else feels it.
The waiter walks past, perfectly warm.
The bartender is sweating.
The alley cat strolls in, yawns, and leaves like the climate is fine.
Meanwhile I’m sitting here like a frozen gargoyle, trying not to turn into a tavern‑themed ice sculpture.
If this draft keeps up, I’m filing a complaint.
A formal one.
With diagrams.
And wind‑speed measurements.