Written in Ink

Fuck You: The Heat.

Entry 3: The heat

No, not the Sandra Bullock-Melissa McCarthy cop buddy comedy. I liked that movie. No, I mean the actual heat, the sun, who may be smiling in his glory, but is a damn sadist who enjoys torturing us, no doubt aided and abetted by us, who have made his wicked proclivities much more easier with the greenhouse affect.


I had a bunch of other topics ready for this series, but while thinking about them, I felt the heat on my skin. Here in SoCal, we have experienced many days of being on the stove. I can't sleep at night, so hot it is. Forget about going outside unless you have to. Forgot about jogging. You'll drop dead. Is it this hot in the rest of the country? Is it this hot in Europe?

And Grandpa Simpson was right: the heat angers up the blood, so you're more short-tempered and life isn't as cool ( in both senses) and easy as it is, so that when you did have a bad day, you could have at least enjoyed some cool weather. Now, you can't even do that. The miracle of life, its improbability and therefore its sacredness, is diminished by the fucking heat on your skin AT ALL TIMES.

And what could you do? There is no God you can pray to and get some relief. The ON switch on the heat is permanently set without a divine power to turn it off.

So a big Fuck You to the heat.

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