It's the kind of hot where even I'll wear a wife-beater and shorts, and I hate dressing like that. I feel like I should be playing hide and go seek. Sneaking cookies. You can't hide from the heat, though. That shit will seek you out like a missile.
It's the kind of hot where you don't even want to breathe the fucking air. It smells like hot plant rot and cigarettes. If I was still smoking would I smoke today? Probably. That's stupid as shit. There are a lot of things I want right now, but a smoke-scraped throat ain't on the list.
It's the kind of hot where dudes get all swaggery on the sidewalk. Like they can't fight the hot, so they'll take a poke at you. Shoulder bump, ignorant, TV-slapped, baby-faced, 'tough' motherfuckers. Usually, they make me smile. Today, well - it's fucking hot. If you want to be tough, I'd love to see it. I won't even try to talk my way out of it. It's dog fight hot. You might be surprised what lies behind this pacifist disguise. It's too hot though. Come on guys ...
It's the kind of hot where it looks like everyone has some horrible fucking disease. Malaria, Typhoid, Apathy - whatever turns your cheeks red and makes every part of your body that touches another part of your body hate you.
It's the kind of hot where Of course I want a hug - a short goddamned hug!
It's the kind of hot where you gotta work on your novel, but your brain ain't pinging on all the right synapses. So, you think you'll just write a little story. But the story's got not plot, it's just got hot.