We get lots of those, along about now. It’s almost August in Texas, and August in Texas means days on end of hundred-degree-plus temperatures, and the grass and flowers all burning up in the sun because you can’t afford enough water to keep everything going, even if watering restrictions weren’t already in effect, and electric bills tripling because even running the air conditioning at eighty degrees and using ceiling fans whenever and wherever in the house you can is expensive. It means buying a quart of iced tea (without sugar in it; sweettea is an abomination before the Lord) with lunch, and having drunk it all before the entrée arrives. It means doing any outdoor work between daylight (about six in the morning) and ten, staying indoors during the heat, and maybe going out again after six in the evening and working until eight, or maybe later if you have good lighting for the yard. It means clothing soaked within fifteen minutes of stepping out the front door. It means listening to the locusts chattering in the trees. It means hunting for any available shade. It means that living has to slow down, by necessity.
39 days . . . .
The bureaucracy cannot find the specified path. Fnord.
