Global warming claims a victim
Ninety-degree shoes melt on the pavement and drip like honey over my best intentions.
Creative writing requires considerable brain energy, so the plan was to edit the day away. The plan quickly thwarted when my highlighter exploded into 23 shards of banana chips.
Procrastination is a chronic disease - elongated liver spots grow on the brain and block the guilt synapses, replacing the wish to act with the promise of many new days to come and an overwhelming desire for country music.
With nothing to do, boredom corrupts, if and when feels like it. Thus far today I have blamed boredom for a plethora of nastiness, including drunken on-line strip Sudoku and a gin and ice cream hangover.
I sit motionless in front of my open refrigerator, sadly, only numb of mind. In the silence I can hear the terrified heart of lettuce - beating louder and faster, it pleads for closure as decay rapidly sets in.
On queue, a breeze rides in through the window like a western hero and kicks the curtains aside with disdain. It twirls like a dancer and cartwheels off the wall. Spotting me on the kitchen floor, the drifter advances, teasing my sweat soaked skin with lies of commitment, then quickly weakens, succumbing to the constraints of a cave with no exit. It crawls away defeated, flipping the newspaper to the obituaries before dying in the arms of a dust bunny in the corner, near the plastic flowers.
All is deafeningly quiet. The apartment stairs sit abandoned, they wait only for the young, the living and the active, none of whom will arrive today. In this sauna, the ghosts get lethargic and gather their souls in the basement. They don't dare venture upwards, higher into the thick, difficult air, like running through water or jogging in sand. They cower under the sewer lines and wait for a cold to match their souls.
Clock-hands bog down in this same copious air; everyone's late and nobody cares.
The elderly expire and the infant's wail, the inbetweeners cope the best they can't. Passive commuters become mortal enemies. Friendships feigned with blessed pool owners. Spouses hate for no reason, sparring on the lawn while the police wipe sweat from their triggers.
Barbers cut through the humid air with their best shears, leaving snippets and droplets on the necks and faces of patrons glued to leather chairs, no hope of escape.
Curators gather in the museum, watching the paint slide from a masterpiece - it pools on the floor like inspired mud, tracing the grout lines towards the stairs. Off to the right, the Pollock looks unaffected.
Heathens pray for rain, or clouds, or a new ice age to fill barren ice-cube trays.
Polar caps melt and flood the coastlines as burning trees suck up the last of the oxygen. Cars and trucks melt in the streets, leaving glistening pools of silver atop liquid rivers of asphalt.
The planet spins and dives into the sun as the seas boil away into space, trailing a comet tail for millions of miles.
I need to buy a fucking air conditioner.