“Financial Nonfat.” This is what Facebook prompted me to type into the security box before publishing the link to my latest blog post. Who the f*ck’s job is it to sit at a desk and come up with these obscure and senseless phrases for people to prove they aren’t computer-hacking, virus-spreading robots, and how much acid are they required to drop every day before their shift in order to brew up these security words? Why can’t this be my job? I can do it better than anyone else. Watch.
Am I hired? Dumb.
Every year I forget what summer feels like. The cold, long winter months seem to drag on longer and longer with each passing year, and the concept of heat and humidity become so distant and unfamiliar to me that they almost become a figment of my imagination. Then July approaches, and I remember. Fast. I checked the weather for this afternoon on NOAA first thing this morning. The forecast? 96 degrees Fahrenheit, 78% humidity, heat index of 102. Disgusting. I can’t live like this, folks. My forehead sweats like a hitch-hiking road whore in Vegas. My face becomes greasier than a Jiffy Lube parking lot within minutes of being exposed to the fiery blaze. I shouldn’t bother applying makeup in the mornings, because it melts off my face like margarine on a wrought iron skillet. I look like Amy Winehouse by 10:30 a.m., and Lindsay Lohan by high noon. Not ideal.
Trent left me in the truck for 6 or 7 minutes just now as he pumped gas at the filling station and moseyed inside to get a bottle of water. As he turned the keys in the ignition, stopped the car from running, and stepped out of the vehicle to pump gas, my thighs immediately began to sweat and stick to the passenger seat. The air in the truck instantly became thick and heavy. I looked up, and saw a middle-aged, overweight Hell’s Angels wanna-be dad with a double chin the size of Ohio and a ginger-beard, leaning on his motorcycle, waiting for his tank to fill. This was the last thing I was going to see before my death. Great.
The truck heated up like an Electrolux Oven faster than you can say “a monkey’s uncle.” My internal instincts said “It’s time to panic, Becca. You need to get out of this car. You’re dying.” I started to cook. Literally cook. My insides were smoking. It smelled like Famous Dave’s. Just when I was about to bust out of the truck and gasp for breath, Trent strolled up to the car and opened the driver’s side door. It was a close call.
The point is, humidity can suck my D, and I would appreciate it if Mother Nature stopped being so bossy and kept the temperature a sexy 83 degrees at a maximum so that I can enjoy my summer months instead of dread them. The end.
“I don’t have only $20 just to f*ck with you—like I’m not trying to be an asshole, I just don’t have very much money!”