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August
In the Summer I always wake up mid-day, because I'm naturally nocturnal. August is like sticking your body in front of a hot-breathed dragon. The moisture sticks to everything, and mid-day to late late evening promises a crock-pot sort of life. Your hands are red and sweaty and even sunglasses don't protect you from that enormous testicle we call our sun. August. August to be said throatily, after drinking hot cocoa when it's not August. My walls literally get slimy, and the tape that crudely adheres various images to my walls falls off, no thanks to my ceiling fan, which doesn't help me not die in the summer anyway. The pollen is at its peak and my step-father and I waste in the essence of severe allergic reactions to ragweed. The cement ground outside holds heat better than my tape could ever hold anything, so even at night, when the crickets won't shut the hell up, and when I'm up at the wee hours, the earth around me is still crusty and undesireable as ever, only not quite as moist. My only escape is to venture to the unfinished basement at Mom's, or, if desperate enough, Piggly Wiggly would do.
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"A man's life is what his thoughts make him." --Marcus Aurelius
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