"It's hotter than Vulcan's dick!!"

I never thought 94˚ would seem balmy, but after last week's record-setting consecutive days of 104˚, anything in the double digits was practically delightful. At one point, I had to go up to the attic to dig out some old crowquill pens I haven't used in years -- and as an experiment, I took up my wife's cooking thermometer. It immediately began to shoot up and even upon reaching 110˚ showed no signs of slowing down ... I gave up on looking for the art supplies and got out of there.

And now we're back to triple-digit temperatures ... And this time around I have a summer cold. Yee-fucking-haw.

This morning I stepped out on the back patio, hoping to enjoy the last of the morning cool while I finished my coffee, but already the air was thick with sun and the long, continuous scream of the cicadas (though whether they were howling at the encrouching heat or the fact that this wretched toad had just slinked out of Washington to avoid additional subpoenas and "spend more time" with his spawn, it was difficult to say.)

Vulcan would've known.