The Heat

Nobody told me that Toronto would be this hot. This is insane. It's early June and the forecast reads 30 degrees all week long. For my American friends, I think that's around 90 Patriot temprature points. Any math assholes who are out there, please feel free to correct me.

The Heat makes you tired and sweaty and short-tempered. I already don't want to write this blog, but I'm a writer, dammit, and this is what I have to do. The heat makes me want to sleep and nap and drink cold fluids and hide in an Air Conditioned establishment that I'm not allowed in because Air Conditioning is a class system just like everything else and the class I am in is humid and sweaty and thus I must watch the rich be cool while I swelter and plot. Swelter and plot - good name for a band. I should go home and pick up my guitar.

Not too much on the go today. Just getting things done that won't get done unless I do them. All my friends are out of town, so that's weird. Just me and my house-mates, and that's fun as it is. Due to the fact that I live with these people and they have computers and they always ask where too find stuff on me, I'll back down on my full opinions. But, one more day of 30 degree heat and I'm snapping.

Not the most entertaining piece I've written, but I'm hot and tired and surprised I actually got out and did this, so good for me.

No lesson today. No moral. No higher meaning and no epiphane. Not everyday is Christmas, and days like this prove it, and if it was, I'd ask Santa for some energy and a slurpee.