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August in Texas pisses me off. I'm a hothouse flower, mind you, and the heat normally doesn't bother me a bit. But August is different. August makes me want to shave my head, get naked, and run around screaming "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!" to everyone and everything all at once. August brings out the hermit in me and it's not uncommon that I'll go the entire month without returning a phone call. It's too hot to talk. It's too hot to move. Nothing is comfortable and everything rubs at me like a cactus splinter that drifts across my hand, invisible but no less irritating than the things I can see with my hateful eyes.
I've been up early this morning, fuming while everyone sleeps. I had fantasies about clanging through the house with pots and pans, blasting The Dicks at full volume, making every kind of angry noise possible. August brings out the punk ass in me, in all the worst ways.
I've been up early this morning, fuming while everyone sleeps. I had fantasies about clanging through the house with pots and pans, blasting The Dicks at full volume, making every kind of angry noise possible. August brings out the punk ass in me, in all the worst ways.