My friend Trixie writes a nice post about the coming of autumn, a metaphor for the changes in her life. In response, I’m going to shit all over her well-worded ponderings by complaining that, by the gods, summer will never end.
There’s something funny about this apartment. I’m wagering on some sort of haunting or somesuch; every night between about 9 and midnight or 1 AM, no matter what the day’s weather, the air conditioner stops working. It’s not broken, I mean; you can hear the motor whirring, and if you put your hand by the vent, you can feel the oh-so-tempting tease of cool air coming out. But it’s hot in here. Hot. Not quite Auschwitz on Cullom Street hot, but enough.
It’s not just me. CL has noticed it, independently.
And the leaves are turning yellow, and beginning to fall from their branches and gather on the ground, but I think that’s just the trees’ way of saying goodbye, fair world, it’s too fucking hot for us around here. We’re packing our shit and moving up north.
Even the squirrels around here don’t really have the usual bushy tails, so I’m betting it’s never going to be cool here again.
All I really want is to be able to wear my long-sleeve t-shirts without dehydrating in five minutes. Is that too much to ask?