Dear Space Heater

You are my best friend.

You live in the Arctic Circle with Mr. Polar Bear Andy and me.

You faithfully supply me with a continuous, comforting wave of hot air.

And where some of your compatriots have adorned themselves with protective mechanisms that automatically turn them off because they're all paranoid about "fire" and "property damage" (wimps),

you will blow for 8 hours straight and not even bat an eye or get warm on your top and sides.

You come with me everywhere: the bathroom in the mornings, the living room when I'm reading, the foyer when I'm waiting for trick-or-treaters with an Edgar Allen Poe book perched on top of you while you toast my shins to Golden Brown and Delicious.

Your cousin, pretender-to-the-throne Electric Blanket, only has two modes: Not Warm Enough or Good At First, But Then I Wake Up Soaked In Sweat.

But not you.

You keep me dry, you keep me warm, and you keep it from snowing indoors here at Under Further Consideration Headquarters.

Thank you.

P. S. A.Con loves you too.  But you're mine.  So no wandering eyes.