Remember a week ago when I was all 'oh yay, it's summer, excuse my jism'? Yeah, about that. I'm ready for summer to be over now. Because back when I was extolling the virtues of summer, it wasn't actually summer. It was still technically spring. I miss spring. Because summer? Is unbelievably hot.

Summer would like us to give it bonus points for waiting all the way until its official first day last weekend to crank the thermometer sharply in the direction of triple digits. But Summer is asking the wrong person to cut it a break.

I'm still having a great time being out of school. I'm still working a lot and bowling on Tuesdays and sleeping late, all of which is great, but it's to the point where a good day involves a maximum of two showers. I can't walk down the driveway to get the mail without becoming drenched in my own sweat. I can't sit at a stoplight for more than twelve seconds without wondering if that's heat stroke I feel coming on.

Yesterday, Ten Pin and I were leaving Subway after dinner and we came upon an eighteen-wheeler that had turned on its side. Why? Because it was so hot that the sun melted the rims on all eighteen of his tires. Okay, not really, but still, you can make grilled cheese on the sidewalk, people. That shouldn't be.

I'm not in the mood for it to be hot outside, either. I have concluded that there is really no good reason for me to be out of doors before dusk or after dawn. The rest of the time I can spend holed up in some bunker or another, chomping on oatmeal cookies and swigging the 2%.

The heat makes everyone stupid, too. For every degree the mercury climbs, the general public loses one IQ point. Don't believe me? Have you been driving lately? If one more person fails to signal on a left turn, I'm going to have a new hood ornament.

I'm not sure how or why, but the heat has warped my brain. Yesterday was the first day this summer that I wore shorts, so it was weird because it's been a while since I haven't had pantlegs. My mom said that it's weird how different pairs of shorts just don't fit right. She was on the right track, but it wasn't just that the shorts didn't fit right -- the day didn't fit right.

Last night was my league bowling night. I was surrounded by tons of other people, many of them my friends. But when bowling was over and I was by myself, I just felt really strange. It was lonliness, but not in the usual sense. How could I be so lonely so suddenly after being with my friends? Maybe it was the withdrawl, the sudden disappearance of a crowd of people. It was one of those nights where I ended up by myself, wandering the aisles of the ghost town that is Books-a-Million late at night. It was one of those nights where I went home and fell asleep in front of Ghost World. And when I woke up this morning, things were better. But it was still motherfucking hot.

Someone should do a study on the correlation between temperature flucuation and fast food purchases, because there have been nasty lines everywhere I've eaten in the last few days. All I wanted was a raspberry milkshake (mmm!) from McDonald's (ew.), but did that mean I didn't have to wait in line for twenty minutes? No. Conclusion: McDonald's needs an express lane. You know, like Wal-Mart.

And suddenly, it's all become clear to me. Today is June 25, six months before Christmas. If the fantasy for December 25 is snow and subzero temperatures, then is it someone else's fantasy for blistering heat and triple digits? There's something to this, I think.

I had a discussion with one of my managers at work once about whether we'd rather be tortured with fire or ice. She said she'd rather have to suffer the cold, because you can always put something on to get warm. I'm beginning to think she was right. At any right, it's time to consider purchasing a summer home in Australia.

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I'm sorry if this sucks, but you should know that I had an hour to write it at the public library in between a 'businessman' who was continually muttering things to himself and some guy blasting rap on his headphones while playing Yahoo! Pool. Not exactly a work environment conducive to the production of great literature, but hey, it's got air conditioning.