There's a pile of laundry and a clogged coffee maker with my name on them, but I can't seem to conjure the energy to bother with either. First of all, I'm kinda hoping "Old Brew-ey" is on its last legs so I can justly purchase one of those fancy-pants compact coffee shop machines with the attached milk steamer and bean grinder. Secondly, the idea of leaving the cool comfort of central air to venture into the garage where we keep the laundry machines makes me want to die.
Somewhere on my myspace page exists a blog where I made fun of people for warning me about the suffocating Southern heat. (Here.) I thought I was so cool back then... Literally.
They were right.
It's fucking HAWT down here.
Last week my beloved and I were sitting outside when he announced to me that a heat wave was coming. Coming?!?! I said. You mean this isn't it? Ninety-Seven degrees later I saw what he meant. I thought I knew humidity living by the ocean. You don't know jack about humidity until you've experienced it around a swamp. Good Lawd! I didn't know alligators could pant. (For the record the only place I've seen a gator since I moved here was at the zoo.)
In Louisiana the sun doesn't simply rise in the morning. It marches forward and demands recognition. It sits square on your shoulders, slapping you in the face declaring "I! Am! Sun!" over and over again until your brain loses the ability to process any cognitive thought other than fantasies about ice storms or rolling around on a bed of Popsicles.
The neighbors have a beautiful in-ground swimming pool. My first intention when I came here was to befriend them for the sole purpose of gaining invites to pool parties and such. However, they've been out there every day this week playing shitty music. Maroon 5? I'd rather burst into flames.