Still hot.

No, just this once I'm not talking about myself (although I could be). I'm talking about the weather. The weather is still barkingly hot. It's so hot that I've given up any and all attempts to be productive. Summer is great. Summer is also lazy.

I know that it's exceedingly boring to talk about the weather, but this week's been so thoroughly hot that I can't not talk about it. It defies omission. It crushes all other topics of conversation beneath its sun-browned feet. It has become the sum of our existence; a constantly nagging fact, reinforced by the enormous, glowing thingy hanging right above our heads, due south. Yes.

So it's hot. We've established that. It's murder to work. We've established that, too. This is a time for cool gardens, refreshing fluids, and loose-fitting clothing. And salads for dinner. It's not a time for hot coffee, steak-and-kidney pie, jeans, and boots. Also, it's hot. Yes.

My upstairs neighbour is excessively noisy. He goes to bed too late, and rises too early. He's an aggressive walker, and when he traverses his apartment, the floor shakes. Also, he plays the bass. You know, the biggest damn string instrument in a symphonic orchestra. Size of a whale. Sounds like one, too. In fact, it sounds like the Barry White of whales. And deep sounds travel down, down through the walls and into my spinal column. I'm dreading that one day he might discover the Brown Noise. So when my neighbour is up and about, it's quite, quite impossible to sleep. I'm getting less and less of that every night. This makes me grumpy. Added to my pre-existent grouchiness, I've turned into Mr. Burns. Only much, much younger, and a great deal more attractive. I hope.

TGIF. You know, because of that weather-thing. Yes.  ¶ 12:47