It is so hot, dear reader. So utterly and completely sweltistering. Is that a word? It should be. Just as the Eskimos have a zillion adjectives to describe the snow, I feel entitled to a whole new vocabulary to address the heat.
Just elbow me if I mix in any swears.
At this point, I'm not sure what the true degree of temperature is anymore. It's immaterial. It doesn't matter. Heat has broken me psychologically; he has stripped me of all independent thought. I just shuffle around muttering his creed, which is: everything is hot, always and forever. If he handed me an ice cube, I'd probably wince and blister.
But that didn't stop me from standing in the middle of the Trader Joe's parking lot yesterday, staring into the sky to take pictures of these glorious clouds. Who cares if my face liquified? The heavens were calling to my soul.
I didn't even think to register how totally bizarre I must have appeared, puddling there like a human crayon, until I noticed a man watching me in utter confusion. He kept squinting at me, up at the sky, and back to me, over and over again.
I suddenly realized he had no idea what I was looking at, and that in his mind braving the death rays of the sun must indicate something really good was up there. Like a monster truck, raining lingerie, or free beers.
How, then, could I help him understand the fleeting yet exquisite delight of a cloud shaped like a jovial snapping turtle??