Slow burn

It's that time of year here in the deep south. August.

It's not unusual for the temperature to hover in the 100-110F range, with heat indexes parked in the 115-120F (or higher) range.

Time slows down in the deep south. The days seem to drag on while the world bakes itself into a dry, dusty, colorless state. The trees droop, the vines sag, the flowers wilt; the only thing standing tall is the mercury in the thermometer.

Air conditioning units run nonstop, and parked cars become kilns. The smells of sour sweat and dust fill the heavy air and linger in the stillness.

The skies have gone from the azure hues of spring to a sun-bleached blue-white. The plants and trees have gone from April's emerald tones to an almost yellow shade of green. The grass has turned the same shade of grey as the Spanish moss.

Night brings no relief. 80 is the overnight low. Even the thinnest of cotton sheets feels like too much weight. Sleep becomes more like exercise, tossing and turning, trying to find a cool spot on the mattress and pillow.

This is our normal state for the next 8 weeks or more. The last thing I want to see is an email from Cusp telling me how to wear leather now; they've obviously never smelled leather coated in human sweat. It won't be long before these asshole retailers will be displaying Christmas themed merchandise and ugly Christmas sweaters, even before the Halloween crap goes on display.

Fuck Christmas. I'm trying to figure out how the hell to keep from sweating as I vacuum my floor. The best I can do is go sit in the deep-freezer and cool off afterwards.