On the Weather

It's hot out.

It's the type of hot where your body automatically shuts down seven of your ten most important internal organs, and you hallucinate like you're packing a horseshoe lip of salvia. The hallucination is always that you're rocking back and forth slowly in a walnut and beechwood rocking chair on the veranda of a southern plantation sipping a tom collins and saying things like "it's hot today" and "It's going to be hot tomorrow" while your bosoms heave magnificently. In this hallucination you're a woman. It's that hot.

On top of the heat, there's lightning today. So much heat and so much lightning that although I do be safely inside the house blogging on the "I will write this blog...in Oregon" blog with your esteemed selves, my nuts have drooped and dragged behind me on their endless quest for relief to such a sweaty rank degree that they've been accidently shut out in the front yard where lightning near misses are singeing my pubies as we speak.

I'm very aroused.