You may think I seem like the kind of person who revels in the doom and gloom of January, soaking in the cold, gray, bleak days of endless darkness, gazing past the leafless trees and into the sunless sky, thankful that there isn't another three-day weekend for months upon months, and not missing Gossip Girl's winter hiatus even the slightest bit. But you would be wrong.
I have diagnosed myself with seasonal affective disorder. It's a real thing; my sister told me! I haven't felt like myself in a few weeks, and I blame the winter. Anyone who really knows me won't believe what they're reading - specifically, all former roommates who no longer speak to me after epic battles over me cranking the thermostat to sub-freezing.
I think I may have found a cure though, other than counting the days until spring (which, believe it or not, doesn't actually help). I'm talking about the arrival of my favorite piece of porn for nesters: Architectural Digest. The impending drool and release of psycho-sexual endorphins lead to a magnificent and swift recovery, all in the name of interior design.