Summer Uncomfortable.

The crack of thunder woke me early this morning with the notion that my house had probably exploded.  My cat, having thought the same thing, decided to attack anything that moved.  This was uncomfortable.

It has been so humid lately; it's been hard to breathe or keep your eyes open all the way.  Mosquitos have also made their presence known.  

The other night I crawled into bed, itching like hell from my poisonous little bits covering the skin that had been exposed to air, and the air, moreover, was so thick and damp that my sheets seemed to be moist as well.  How uncomfortable it was to lay still and not scratch my bites while the steamy air bloated me! 

And until the thunder, and eventual landscapers, a silence filled every gap the humidity had left.  A silence of unrequisition, of other's slumber, of your own meaningless to the multiverse.  

And you check all that is real.  A face, sometimes yours.  Hands, dirty and ready to scratch.  But not much else because you suffer from an intoxication of Canadian beer, vodka, and pleasantries that were once your own.  And the internet lends it's faithful ear, while it publicly betrays you on social networking sites, displaying budding relationships, while you type alone. 

Once you finally fall to sleep, and REM hits, a crack of thunder alarms you awake.  It is restless. And lonesome. And Uncomfortable.  

I have never liked summertime much.