Friday, June 25

Thank you heatwave for this mental breakdown.

Last night I was done.  Done, done, done.  Mentally checked out.  I came home and couldn't make adult conversation.  I couldn't formulate sentences.  And the only thing I could think of for dinner was Cheerios.  I can't do this heat anymore.  It's rotting my brain.  Or what's scientifically described as a brain.  And even a cocktail didn't sound appetizing.  I think my brain is oozing out my ears, especially the left one.  Because that's what side I sleep on.

So don't expect to hear from me until Sunday.

I should be doing all the laundry possible this weekend, cleaning the apartment, and packing for Thursday.  But I'm not.  I need to recharge.  And so does Mr. Wookie.  He's had a very long week at school.  So this weekend is all about decompressing.

But sometimes you should just not do what would be best.  For your sanity.  This trip to England will be a welcome trip in more ways than one.  It's taking all my strength not to run away right now.  Where I'd run to?  I don't know.  Anything remotely close is either humid also or Canadian.  Hmmmm, eh?

I just wish life were back to "normal."  And by normal, I have ABSOLUTELY no definition for that.  I just wish we had weather I could run in for starters.  I've been so damn cooped up in either my office or our apartment that I forgot what trees look like.  And yes, this is an unusually warm summer  in SE Virginia, but it's killing me.  I'm one for temperate climates mixed with rain and showers.  Moving to Belize-like climates overnight has tested my sweat glands, my clothing choices, and desire to eat anything that's remotely above freezing.  It's draining on my nerves to where even a beautiful cup of Kona blend coffee doesn't sound appealing in the morning.  THIS SHOULD SOUND APPEALING.  It's freakin' Kona.  Okay, a blend, but still...STFU.

I sit on my butt at work at look at the muggy weather outside.  Or I'm working an event, sweating up a storm, watching the temperature climb from indoors.  Then I race from the elevator to my car and crank up the A/C.  Don't believe me?  Well take one look at my bras (maybe you can get Russian nuclear codes).  They're getting perma-stained from the boob sweat.

Rainy England has never been morning appealing.  But I swear, if they tout one day remotely close to what it's like over in the New World, I'm going to stab someone.  Maybe a furry-hatted guard.  Maybe then he'll succumb to the touristic taunts.  And maybe shed a tear.

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