It’s been hotter than a jalapeno’s groin all summer. Or maybe it’s that I’m usually an indoor boy, and selling fish on Telegraph makes this is my first summer with significant outdoor time. Either way it’s too dang hot. Even changing my underwear every third day like usual, I still get a sweaty itchy rash after a couple of particularly hot days.
From Pathetic Life #15
Sunday, August 13, 1995
It makes me cranky, day after day. Feels like I’ve been in a bad mood for a month, like everywhere I go there’s someone else who needs to be yelled at. And then today, I was stuck selling fish on the wrong side of the street — in direct sunshine, all day long. I was sauteed in sweat before I’d finished setting up the table. All the other vendors, though, and everyone walking by, and indeed everyone on Earth except me seemed to be in the shade.
My booth was hot hot hot, and far from the maddening customers. That’s bad for business, yes, and bad for my recurring rash, but at least I didn’t have anyone to argue with. Nothing much to do at all, except sit there wishing I wasn’t sitting there, while scissoring out more fish.
Came home dead tired from the heat, said a few words to Judith, and she made me smile. It felt like my first smile of the day. She can do that — make people smile, even me. She has a knack I’ll never have, for being human.
Then I came into my room, closed the door, and banged out this grumpy soliloquy. Now I’m going to grumpily read a book, and then grumpily go to sleep.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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