Heat Wave

It is approximately 8 bajillion degrees in my apartment.

I got home and made dinner – in the microwave, because who can deal with fire-cooking in this weather – while talking to my roommate. And by talking I mean complaining. I had found her sitting in our kitchen with the lights off with a fan pointed directly at her.  It was only like 7, so it wasn’t that weird that the lights were off – it was pretty light out, so there was no need for any extra heat.

I pulled my fan out to the kitchen and sat opposite her, my fan pointed at me. We griped and moaned about the heat while drinking our cold alcoholic beverages of choice.

Between the heat and the alcohol, our conversations reached absurdity. She’s part Puerto Rican, but she doesn’t usually act it.  She’s highly educated, very smart, generally quite eloquent. However, when she gets a little tipsy, her roots make an appearance and her New York accent comes out in full force. She’s about as fluent in Spanish as I am, but her Latin sass comes out, as do the few vocabulary words she IS familiar with.

It’s too hot to possibly coordinate it right now, but I have been collecting snippets of our conversation, and I’m positive it will be entertaining.

At least, it was to me under the influence of a little bit of alcohol and a lotta bit of heat stroke.

Until then, we will be here in our now pitch black kitchen with pillowcases that we have soaked with water then left in the freezer wrapped around our necks, radio blaring and fans close by. We are unwilling to go into our sweltering rooms, unable to do much besides sit and gripe.

I had to post today, with moments to spare, but I am unable to formulate full sentences. It’s just too darn hot.

Until tomorrow, friends. When I will hopefully be able to think and when typing will no longer seem like an Olympic event.


~ by Valerie Anne on 07/22/2011.

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