...from Readercon, and you all want to know how hot it is in my apartment, the apartment that's been sealed shut and baking in 100 degree heat for the last four days. Do you? OH YES. YES YOU DO.
The thermometer in my living room reads TWILIGHT ZONE FLAMEY EPISODE HOT, BITCH. My sweat is sweating. My toilet seat feels like a hotplate searing my ass. The floorboards are sizzling my feet into puckery melting nubs. My contacts dried out after five minutes, and I had to shove toothpicks in my eyes to peel them off my boiling red pupils. My clothing caught on fire when I touched it. Herbert was humping an ice cube tray. When I turned on the fan, it jumped off the stool and ran out the door, yelling YIP YIP YIP all the way down the stairs. THIS IS ALL TOTALLY TRUE.
Readercon report will be tomorrow, when it's cooler. Until then, excuse me while I crawl into the freezer or burst into flames. Whatever comes first.
The thermometer in my living room reads TWILIGHT ZONE FLAMEY EPISODE HOT, BITCH. My sweat is sweating. My toilet seat feels like a hotplate searing my ass. The floorboards are sizzling my feet into puckery melting nubs. My contacts dried out after five minutes, and I had to shove toothpicks in my eyes to peel them off my boiling red pupils. My clothing caught on fire when I touched it. Herbert was humping an ice cube tray. When I turned on the fan, it jumped off the stool and ran out the door, yelling YIP YIP YIP all the way down the stairs. THIS IS ALL TOTALLY TRUE.
Readercon report will be tomorrow, when it's cooler. Until then, excuse me while I crawl into the freezer or burst into flames. Whatever comes first.
- Current Location:apartment of fubarwin
- Current Mood:
on fire - Current Music:teh hottness crackling in my brain
Profile
livia_llewellyn- Livia Llewellyn
- Take a trip to the city...
Marine Autumn
I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.
--Pablo Neruda.
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.
--Pablo Neruda.
