It’s the end of the day super stretch and I should just throw in the towel. I’ve been cruising on coffee and a positive attitude all day, clenching my jaw as in my rave days, but without the ecstacy or the Dr. Seuss hat, under which I would have snuck my water bottles. Time to slump over the steering wheel of my car.
I have been as efficient and as engaged as I could possibly be considering my three hours of sleep. News of the day: Someone just reported that the Target in my neighborhood has sold out of fans. Just a note, it’s been going hot like this for a while, so why do we wait so long and then all panic at the same time, as if the nukes are headed straight for our heat-softened glutes? I just know that somewhere in the southland, a news crew is reporting on a run of fans at the Santa Fe Springs Wal-Mart, complete with B-roll footage of business men in fountains, dogs and kids shaking their tails at the beach, and crowds stewing and marinating in piss-filled public pools.
Carrie earlier started a discussion about the size and age of the universe, which ultimately led Dawn and I toward contemplating suicide.
“After a while, when you consider how big the whole thing is, you begin to realize that nothing we do matters. Why have cereal for breakfast when you’re just going to be dead and forgotten anyway?” reflected Carrie.
“Yeah, it’s like the existential guys had it right all along, and even the Nihilists. Man. Why am I even here? Are we here?” piggy-backed Dawn.
And the answer is no, no one passed out brownies earlier. It’s the heat. When you are already sweating and it’s only dawn, by lunch you are just begging for a tractor-trailer load of Grim Reaper guys to slay you where you stand.
I’m not yet ready to die. I have a night picnic to attend. Just me and my man, provided I don’t spontaneously combust.
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