And by "you," I mean "me."
Ten things I have resorted to doing on account of it being 92 degrees with 700% humidity:
-- Sticking my head inside the freezer and closing the door as much as I can, so as to keep as much cold air in as possible. This prompted passers by to conclude that I was making the most half-assed suicide attempt ever. They're only sort of wrong.
-- Sticking my head into a cold shower periodically and allowing my hair to drip dry because the Chinese water torture of the drip-drip-drip on my forehead at least took my mind off the puddle of sweat accumulating on my lower back.
-- Opening the refrigerator door and just glowering at the two cartons of eggs that sit there. There’s nothing to eat in the house that hasn’t melted past the point of recognition, and yet there sit two perfectly good cartons of eggs which I cannot consume because there is no way in hell I am turning on my stove. Not for you. Not for anyone.
-- Making the ludicrous decision that I would prefer X2’s Iceman to Fantastic Four’s Human Torch, simply on temperature-based criteria.
-- Walking all bowlegged and cowboy-like so as to air out my undercarriage and keep swamp-ass at bay for another hour. This latest edition of Scary Mental Picture Cinema has been brought to you by the “modesty” portion of my brain, which has overheated and is thus malfunctioning.
-- Planning a vacation to hurricane country, because right about now high winds and pouring rain seem like viable options to me, and I’m sick and tired of being jealous of Anderson Cooper and his rain-soaked poncho on CNN.
-- Laughing at the clearly inadequate rain showers which are falling around these parts, failing rather spectacularly at cooling anything down.
-- Renting The Ice Storm, Snow Falling on Cedars, Cold Mountain, and Jack Frost in a futile attempt to cool down by osmosis. No such luck. I was able to fall asleep, though.
-- Standing between Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey at the Dukes of Hazzard premiere just so I could enjoy the chill that passes between them when Johnny Knoxville walks by.
-- Thinking about sweet, sweet January, when it’ll be ten degrees with a below-zero wind chill, and I’ll be able to bitch and complain about cold-ass Buffalo again.