My appendix is boiling. I got in my car after work today and it was like driving home in an oven. My bottle of water, cold straight from the office fridge, was lukewarm by the time I got home 20 minutes later. My body is now emitting a kind of seismic heat signature that sharks are picking up all the way out in the Atlantic ocean.
Dudes? It is really freaking hot.
Like, mid-eighties hot. So hot you can’t really sleep at night because the covers are cloying and restrictive and pure unadulterated evil. The kind of hot where you fantasize about cooking food on the asphalt just so you won’t have to step foot in the kitchen. Washington was not meant to get this hot.
I know I complained the other day about us skipping the summer because our politicians cut it from the budget, but I never planned to summer on the surface of the bloody sun, now, did I? We are simply not equipped to deal with this kind of inferno. The puppy is melting, my husband is half-clothed, and I can’t seem to get off the couch. No matter how many fans we point in strategic places and how long we keep the drapes closed, we watch anxiously as the thermostat climbs higher and higher until a little spring pops out the top of it álá Looney Tunes.
If Wes and I are ever wealthy, we are taking a trip to Ireland and Paris. After that, though? Air conditioning. And a pool. And magical metabolisms so we can subsist off meatballs and brownies and always remain in the peak of health. Oh yes, my priotrities are spot-on.