You and I have become well acquainted over the course of 3 decades and some change. We've had fun at the beach, the zoo, in a box with a fox, hand in hand, but every year, without fail, I seem to forget what your true power is; it's true extent. Then August rolls around and I remember, with a sweaty brow, how miserable you make me. The entire city is complaining about you and your 100º this past weekend, the one where I stayed in, sans a little breakfast, on a Sunday, while the BNC was home, and vegged out just like the broccoli in the crisper is doing right now. The slap in the face you give me once I open the front door stays with me all the day. Dude, you're killing me. August surely must stand for HOT AS A MFER. I don't even want to lounge in the pool because something tells me I am going to boil.
Listen, I know you have to make an appearance, enough so people can complain about it and make the Global Warming comment. I get it, you have to uphold your reputation but man, you're killing me, Smalls. I'm just trying to walk to my car without letting my just straightened hair curl up and create this ugly hot mess. I'm also trying not to drown from all the humidity since I don't know how to swim. No bueno.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is, fuck, can you turn it down a notch?
See you in an hour, Heat.