Dear Portland,
I know it's oppressively hot, but for the love of god, please exercise some personal hygiene. I don't smell like roses at the end of a long hot day on my bike, but dammit, I try to not make my fellow streetcar riders' eyes tear from my stench. The serious funk is not acceptable, especially when I KNOW you aren't homeless.
Yours Truly,
Brasilliant
I have no words for the weather that we're experiencing. In fact, typing makes me feel as though I'm going to burst into flames. Today, it was 104º. One-hundred-four-degrees. Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of people telling me every single season that "this never happens."
This freak weather is making me a miserable soul with hair stiff from sweat who has to come home to an apartment that is 92.3 degrees (courtesy of the instant-read thermometer) at midnight.
Poo on this weather. I'm moving to the north pole.
P.S. We won our kickball game. That helped a little.
2 comments:
Send me a postcard.
Don't you just love repetitive weather commentary? My personal favorite is when it's hotter or colder than usual here and people say, "Oh Californians, you don't know what it's like to be REALLY hot/cold. Back in [insert name of state s/he fled in order to move here] we get hail the size of bowling balls/ 40 below with wind chill/ 110 degrees in May/ locusts raining from the sky...."
And yet, you notice that such people have chosen not to live there.
Not that I'm sensitive or anything.
Post a Comment