Baby, It's Cold Outside (But Not in My Spanish Apartment)

It's getting caliente in here with electricity daddies and muscle mommies.

Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash. Not a picture of my actual home, but you probably figured that out by now, didn’t you?

I want to apologize for calling you a baby in the title of this post. You’re not a baby — you’re an adult… Wait, unless you’re actually a baby. What the hell?

This blog isn’t a daycare for babies, okay?

This is a safe space for adults, hence the age gate everyone democratically consented to on bastions of free thought like the platform hosting this blog. So get outta here with that fake ID, baby. Go watch Bluey someplace else. And did you smell the cigarette smoke and diesel fumes? European blogs are bad for babies. You know what baby is in Spanish, baby? Oh, lucky guess. Yeah, it’s bebé. No, you’re not that smart. Where’s your mom? She needs to correct your attitude and your diaper.

Just ignore the bebé, everyone.

Nope, let it cry. That’s how they learn, by wailing alone for several hours, completely deprived of attention. What do you mean it’s not an it? Whether it’s a boy, el bebé, or girl, la bebé, doesn’t matter. Ah, problem solved! I blocked the damn thing. Did you see its profile?

That baby had problematic views. It was sharing Jordan Peterson quotes… far worse than any expressed here at Bebop Libre.

Don’t forget to subscribe for more sophisticated opinions from the mind of a humble adult who’s much more mature and smart for his age than Mr. Peterson. Our editor-in-chief, Reese, whose voice does not resemble that of Kermit the Frog, is a relatable everyman. A thought leader. He’s also super attractive, but with the wisdom of Gandalf, or Jesus Christ. Not that they aren’t attractive too. We’d agree we’re different flavors of “unconventionally” attractive, which is the best kind. We look distinguished. Me with my beanie, Gandalf with his robes and staff, and Jesus over here with his fat stack of paternity tests. Need I say more?

Indeed, I will say more. This is the time of year when we’re all bundled up like bebés, unless you’re a blue cartoon dog from Australia. Or from anywhere else with summertime weather in December.

Truth be told, I’m not particularly bundled up here in Santiago de Compostela, I mean… not compared to the layers I needed to brace the chill wind on an elevated railway platform covered in blood-vomit stains in Chicago. But that was a year ago on a mandatory bubble tea binge in Chinatown. This is now.

And it would seem someone left the heat on in our apartment.

We can’t afford heat. What’s going on here? Why’d she leave the heat on? Can you infer who would do that? It’s getting crispy, actually. I know what I’ll do: loudly mumble to myself about someone leaving the heat on. That’s a productive and emotionally developed way to resolve a dispute with a person you’ve been in a relationship with for almost twelve years. Wow… twelve years? That would bring a tear to my eye, if the damn heat hadn’t evaporated it off!

Oh, according to my messaging app, she’s sending something. What? What’s this..?

She sent this message to me with words I can’t read, because I can only read American despite having moved to Spain. What’s an electricidad? An electricity daddy? She has an electricity daddy? Oh, this twelve-year relationship is so over, bruh. This revelation is shaking me to my core. Fine, I know what I’ll do: the opposite. By finding a muscle mommy. But only after I de-stress with a bubble tea.

Oh, hold on, she’s sending something else.

Now I’m very confused. Gas? Must mean something different in Spanish. What could Spanish gas possibly be? Sounds like slang for drugs… She’s doing drugs?! And not sharing them with me?! Oh, I see how it is. She and her electricity daddy have been drugging it up while I’ve been content-creating for my ten followers, listening to What is Love by Haddaway on repeat, alone. Solo. Wait until Muscle Mommy hears abou—

Another message…

“Add the numbers together, dumbass.”

Oh, I think I will. I was already going to do that. Hold on, let me pull up my calculator app.

Where the fuck is the comma? This calculator doesn’t let you add numbers with commas in them. One cannot simply add 13,72 and 11,75. That doesn’t even make sense. In America, we put decimals in our numbers, and that’s difficult enough. Okay, I’ll ask ChatGPT. He says…

“13,72 isn’t a number — it’s a way of life.”

…Uh, what?

“And here’s the truth: 11,75 isn’t just your mom’s favorite number — it’s a grindset with a vibe — and it will SHOCK you.”

What are you talking about, ChatGPT? You’re supposed to do things for me more convincingly than that! God damn it. How am I supposed to add the numbers together if the AI won’t do it for me? If it can’t do that, it probably can’t write blog posts worth a shit either. Why do I have to do everything myself?

And she’s typing again…

“Stop mumbling to yourself. You’re like my dad. I can hear you. I’m downstairs. And stop trying to use ChatGPT to perform basic arithmetic, or you’ll make the energy bills skyrocket here too.”

Holy shit — this changes everything.

Those were… energy bills? The numbers in those bills, 13,72 and 11,75 — whatever they mean — are so small here in Spain. If I add the front parts of those numbers together, that would mean one Chicago deep-dish pizza costs about $20 more than what we pay for energy here in Spain. For a month. And yet, it’s so hot in here.

I think I’m gonna take off m—

This post was abruptly terminated by Reese’s publicist, otherwise known as his wife. Hi, there! Please stop encouraging him. I sincerely urge you not to press the subscribe button below. Just so you know, we’re a normal couple trying to integrate here in Galicia, and we deeply respect local customs. We’re happy and don’t have problems in our relationship.