Fucking Florida. It's as hot as my singed pubes after banging a homeless chick in front of a makeshift bonfire. Jeans do not belong here. Nor do long-sleeve collared shirts. God damn it, man. These shoes are not waterproof, let alone ball sweat proof. This ball sweat is seeping through my socks like the jizz on a piece of circle-jerk bread. And not any of that fancy herbs and cheese bread at Subway. Fuck that. We use straight up Publix rye here. And I don't even like rye bread.
So what am I going to do? Now that I have air conditioning in both my car and room, it won't be nearly as bad as last summer, right? No. No way. It can't be. Last summer I arrived at work everyday looking like I was covered in placenta. It's 98 degrees in the morning, like turning on your radio with a Nick Lachey CD in it. And then I would proceed to sweat like a Florida public school student in a Korean math contest. I must have smelled like desire. And then I would return home in the afternoon sun, walk into
So now it starts anew. But I'll have the air. And with the air, I can get by. I can survive. I'm a regular Gloria Gaynor. You hear that, The Sun? Let's get it on, motherfucker. Water's getting warm. Hurricane Vern is forming. Don't feed it, The Sun. Don't fucking feed it.
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