I just looked, and the thermostat in my house says ‘GTFO,’ which is definitely scientifically accurate. I didn’t just ponder the idea of it, but actually called several hotels to see if I could transplant my family to the cool embrace of some suite for the next two days so that we might ride out this unnatural heat wave. Some would call that a big, fat waste of money, and they’d be right, but that won’t stop me from offering up my middle finger as a pacifier.
I think it’s at least two or three jabrillion degrees in here, which is not a measurement of heat. Nothing I can do about it, though. Nobody in the Bay Area has an air conditioner, myself included, because the sun is not supposed to take a holiday in these parts. Except, it has, and we’re all scrambling. Home Depot and Orchard and every other hardware store within a 100-mile radius sold out of portable cooling units as though they were the last bottles of water on the planet. Now, there’s a surreal, dystopian feeling around the city as people sit outside and pray for a wind, terrified of returning to their homes. Makes sense. The coolest room in my house is the garage, and that shit ain’t right. My poor, miserable dog–a Siberian husky mix–looks like he’s on the verge of irreversible psychosis.
I’m sitting on the floor now, trying not to stick to it and failing, as I type up this post in an effort to distract myself from all the symptoms of a monumental heat stroke. It’s not looking good, people.