Dear Record-Breaking Seattle Heat Wave,
Oh, you make me hot. So so hot.
Hot too hot-hot, as my friend Mike would say.
Hot like a dragon is breathing on me and slowly steaming me into a nice soft casserole-pudding, hot like even my always-icy feet are lukewarm to the touch! Hot like I’m in a giant cast-iron pot being stewed, hot like I am a fried egg. In the first few seconds after it comes out of the pan, not when it’s cold and congealed. Oh what I would give to be cold. (Not congealed.)
Actually, I don’t like being cold either. I like being room temperature (though not this room; this room is 90 degrees and not likely to cool off even after the sun goes down).
I like being San Diego 70-80 degrees near the ocean temperature. So much that I want to put it in a brownie sandwich and eat it.
Someone else in my mind (not a voice, an imaginary person): Well if you loooove San Diego so much, why don’t you marry it?
More mature someone else in my mind: Or move there?
Me: Fine. I think I will. (This is a true statement. In less than a month I fly. Then drive.)
Also, I think I’m hungry. Is it just me, or were there a lot of food references in the above? To be fair, a lot of food is hot. Like the weather. But there must be other comparisons one could make. Even me. I could make other comparisons.
Like…the heat was like sitting under a giant blow dryer covering the entire earth whilst holding the last print of a dying newspaper, fresh off the press, in one’s hands and sitting on a long-burning lightbulb, and soaking one’s feet in a chamomile tea bath and wearing one of those amazing Russian fur hats with the ear-flaps and sucking in water just evaporated off a natural hot spring. Also wearing sixty-eleven wool sweaters knitted by one’s grandma.
Hmm. Maybe some food would help. With the thinking. And the writing.
Looooooooooooove (it’s love, but it’s melting in the heat),