O. M. G. You guys. It’s hot as MURDER in New York.
Listen, I know what Californians consider hot, and let me tell you, being able to fry an egg on the sidewalk is nothing compared to being able to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and seasoning it with your own sweat. Or better yet, poaching an egg in a bowl of your sweat as collected by mischievous wood nymphs who only delight in your suffering. This is how hot it is.
Now, I’ve embraced my inner (and outer) sweaty beast. I realize that, even in the dead of February, I will work up a sweat climbing the 3 flights to my apartment. I wholeheartedly accept the fact that I will begin sweating bullets when put in front of a slew of corporate employees, or when eating Tabasco, or when forced to interact with senior citizens. However, when I begin sweating the moment I set foot outside, the moment I leave the climate controlled safety of my bedroom, I have no psychological defense. I become a puddle of the man I used to be, dissolved into component parts: sebaceous fluid, amino acids, an ironic t-shirt, and rage. It is no wonder that people like me devolve into this. I feel for the guy, I really do. If I’d walked 4 blocks in a 3 piece suit from the subway to the office, and arrived soaking wet by my own doing, only to have some office toady tell me that I wasn’t sorting my trash properly, there might be a chance that I went completely postal. I understand the idea of ‘Hot as Murder’.
I’ve also turned aside from the notion that when I sweat, I look something like this:
And realized that it’s really much more like this:
On a side note, when I was googling ‘sweaty’ and ‘sweat-soaked’ you can imagine the amount of gay porn that came up. On the site where I found that first image, I also found this:
Oh, Zacky. Really… only a matter of time, isn’t it?
