Ladies and gentlemen of the internets,
I am writing you this missive from the kitchen of my residence. It is a southward-facing room, and the doors to the rest of the house are shut. The oven is turned on, and twenty-four candles burn on my counters. Thanks to these measures, I am tolerably warm; though my toes are a bit cold, I am not wearing gloves, and the blanket I had wrapped around me is currently on the floor. I am, however, still wearing thick socks and slippers, sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweatshirt, and my nice warm bathrobe.
From this fortress I shall await the arrival of the man who is to fix our furnace.
If you do not hear from me again, please retrieve my frozen body from this kitchen and give it proper burial.