The sun and I don’t get along. While I live in the sweltering wasteland of Las Vegas, I’m pale enough to pass for a year-round Londoner, or centuries-old vampire, or the world’s sexiest troglodyte.
I usually have my blinds half-open, to let in enough light to comfortably see, but not so much that it lights the carpet on fire. However time comes when every man has to leave his castle to check the mail or purchase cigarettes, and is thus subjected to the full fury of the sun.
I never liked the song Blinded by the Light, but lately it’s personal. I had been holding out for nuclear winter, but I may just need to move somewhere perpetually overcast.