This entry is brought to you by the topic "it's eleven pm and one hundred and two degrees outside." Fucking Heat Island.
Have you looked at the little temperature thing over there on the left lately? It's supposed to be 116*F tomorrow. The lowest temperature setting on my oven is 115*F. Some part of this just doesn't seem right.
I've made up some mythology for this place. On a pretty regular basis, I quiz Steady on the topic "WHY IS THIS PLACE EVEN HERE? Whose bright idea was this?" and then he laughs at me and my sixth grade knowledge of American History. (Apparently, the settlers came from the south, not the east, for example.)
The nice settlers showed up and it was January and they thought "This is heaven." and then the heat came and every day they said "This sure is a hell of a heat wave. It has to break soon." and then later "That must have been a freak thing. Next summer it can't possibly be so hot and dry." This went on for about five years, and by then why move? They'd already survived it several times.
Seriously, who thought "I know! I've got it! This is what we'll do. We'll block off a little more than nine thousand square miles and build a GIGANTIC metropolitan area right here where there's a tiny bit of fresh water and you can easily burn to death outside in the summer. This is brilliant!"
Last night it stormed. There was humidity and wind and lightening and thunder and lots of blowing dust. No rain. Too hot and dry. The water evaporates before it gets way down here to this valley.
It still feels like I am living on another planet sometimes.
