Someone Has a Lot of Explaining to Do

Well, I have officially reinhabited the motherland. And it's 104 degrees. There is sweat: in the creases of my palms, along my hairline, between my toes, on the ground from where between my toes once was, along the backs of my knees, sliding down my cleavage, gathering in my belly button, and clinging to all the seams of my clothing, which I have steadily reduced as today has gone on.

That's how hot it is when you live on the third floor with no air conditioning. Who built this building? I have a sweaty bone to pick with him.

I went and asked today if we could have a rent reduction and Lisa (who as Teenie describes: looks, sounds, and smells like a smoker) said: "Not a chance, honey." She has cookies ready on a silver platter every morning for the miserably hot tenants in the Country Club Towers. And dog biscuits. Sometimes I think I'm in the wrong life and things are too luxurious for me, and then a scorcher like today hits, and I'm humbled again by the human inability to adapt to nature's decisions. I took a biscuit for Quincy who was waiting and squeeing in the mini-van. Apparently, he's having trouble adapting, too. Or he's just gotten conditioned to too many things like biscuits and manufactured cold air.

We drove by some garage sales because that's the type of thing you do when you're procrastinating the job hunt. I always feel bad walking by garage sales, lingering, looking, and wordlessly leaving. I feel like I need to make an explanation. Nice things, really nice, but not exactly what I'm looking for, so thanks anyways, and have a nice rest of the day with the things no one will buy. I made no explanations today. Too hot. I think everyone running the sales was ready to shut her down around noon. I did score:

some gold open-toe shoes that I can't possibly pretend I need, and another dog biscuit.

Dogs don't know how good they have it. My bank even doles out the deliciousness to dogs. Why don't they make dog biscuits that taste good to humans, too, and then you could give the dog a treat, and give yourself a treat at the same time? Why don't I go to the pool and pass Lisa who is wearing a white suit and who will offer me cookies and biscuits, and charge me a whopping amount of money to live somewhere unequipped for global warming's repurcussions?

And this is no joke. Why didn't the water work in my apartment when I just got up to fill my glass for the 345th time?

There are no explanations for the dry faucet, for the record-breaking heat, for the soaring price of everything when everyone is running out of money, or for the good salvage yard souls whose things are glanced upon and then left behind by silent strangers. The only thing left for me to do is be underwater where you can't ask any questions or expect any answers, and that's exactly where I'm going.