I'm a person who appreciates attention to detail and exactness. Especially when it applies to the person who is writing my paycheck. (Hi, Ang!)
But this morning, it is just too much for the mind to bear: the thermometer perched on my windowsill like a bedraggled, puffed up little bird is screeching: "Zero point nine degrees, 0.9*, 0.9* ...."
Go away, little bird. Before I smack you with a badminton racket.
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