Hot Hot Heat

The store has no ventilation. Just fans that blow hot air, so it slaps you like a Frenchman on fire as oppose to engulfing you like triple lindy into an active volcano. This siracha afternoon is killing me and I'm only 5 hours into an 11 hour shift. I'm sweating like Bill Cosby at the 2015 Lilith Fair and I think I'm starting to imagine crazed shit like a 2015 Lilith Fair. For the first time in life I've understood the dylanesque poignancy of the nelly lyric in "it's getting hot", he was truly onto something universal, direct with no need for metaphors and abstractions. I tried to write but the sweat dropped onto my journal and the wet page is useless, plus I'm sun dumb and beyond an original thought. An Arizonan just complained about the heat, apparently a life's training doesn't prepare you for this. At least not every idiot came to the beach today to get wasted and ask me stupid questions like "there's a big concert coming to town, do you know who is playing and where?" This isn't hyperbole, this is the information they provided. They're probably sun dumb too. Alright, that killed 8 minutes, 6 hours and 52 minutes to go!