To the current temperature:
You suck. How dare you slyly sink into your most inhospitable range on the already difficult day when I must rouse from my cozy holiday slumber and re-enter the workforce, eyes glazed over and tummy still stuffed with decadent festive treats. I moved from Wisconsin and Minnesota vowing to never again know the misery of your most icy realms. The incessant lapping of your viciously-cold tongue at my tender, exposed skin makes simple tasks like toasting a PopTart and selecting appropriate outerwear impossible. Within moments of heading outdoors, I find myself collapsed into the fetal position in a snow drift mumbling “defrost!” over and over. You sir, are nothing but a bitter, no-count gust with a frigid heart and a frostbitten soul. May an unpredictable warm front soon whoop your freezing ass into melty submission.
To the thermostat in my apartment:You suck. I suffer no matter how I adjust you. When I set you at a reasonable temperature, you ignore your limits and allow the heater to pound my parched skin with hot air until, panting and sweaty, I’m forced to turn you down. Then you refuse to allow the heater to turn on and a chilly frost settles on my belongings. You are a mechanism of extremes, a bi-polar instrument of torture. I’ve had you replaced and still you fail to accomplish your only job. May you rust and crumble in the shadow of a super-efficient space heater.