To be honest with you, I am fine without air conditioning. The window unit is loud and runs up the electricity bill and means that I don't get to wake up to the sound of chirping birds. I kind of like just lying there without any sheets, feeling the warmth of summer evening envelope me, staying perfectly still -- doing my best to expend as little energy as possible; trying not to even think.
The only poetry my wife sees in sleeping in a hot room, however, comes in haiku form:
She hates being hot at night.
She will kick my ass.
When it is hot, she "sleeps" in fits of violence. She spins and lurches across the bed, driving her knee into the picture of spread-eagle serenity that is me. She slaps at my shoulders and sighs and growls. Occasionally, just in case I have missed the point, she will loudly announce: "Muh! It's hot!"
"Yes, I know. Just relax. It's not that bad," I say.
But she doesn't say anything back because she's, you know, "asleep." She's subconsciously spreading her misery far and wide. If I do not put in the window unit soon, she may sleepwalk next door and kick the neighbors in the throat.
One of the lines in Carrie Underwood's "Inside Your Heaven" is: "Every time I see you I'm alive."
Well, yeah. What else would you be? The walking undead?
My eyes and my ears are bleeding.
Am I the only person who thinks Gordon Brown sounds more prime ministerial than Blair? Just go on and make the switch.
Hmm. Interesting. Actually, that would be a bad idea -- I have to run the next morning.
Toast art. I smell a niche market. Or maybe I just smell breakfast.
They say that one-third of all the Soul Coughing albums were bought by Minnesotans (I know I certainly have all the band's albums), so I feel almost required to link to the blog of Mike Doughty, who used to front the band. I am very slow on the take; he's been blogging since 2004.
I really like this picture.