It’s fucking hot outside.
I went up to bed last night and my room was like a sauna. I had two fans blowing on me, humid air on my damp, sweaty skin. I had the worst icky feeling, prickly and gross. My hairline was like a leaky faucet.
It took forever to fall asleep. No blanket, which I had kicked off onto the floor for another cooler time.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Yay! (Sarcasm alert.) 41 this year. Which is fine, we all get older, right?
But it’s the day after that bothers me. The day that my dad died in front of me in the car on the way home from an amusement park. 29 years now.
You would think that it wouldn’t bother me so much since it was such a long time ago, but August 19 still brings sadness and a heavy feeling to my heart. You can see why I loathe my birthday so much. (Plus extra wrinkles.)
Anytime now, September.