I'm like some sort lizardy creature who thrives in the sunshine but, when there is a higher than average humidity rating, can barely function just lying on her rock. I even started to hate my rock a little during the nadir of the Civic weekend, when the sky was one colour all day and hair just never dried post-shower. Eventually I mopped the floors of my rock (abandoning simile), which is good since I'm hostessing a dinner party tonight. Also because it improved morale. But really, as holiday weekends go, this one was subpar.
You know who else hates humidity? The main character in Douglas Coupland's JPod. I'm just mentioning it because that doesn't come up in fiction a lot. Also because that book was funny. Silly, actually--a big hodgepodge of invention and gags and mess, not your typical CanLit. Jolly good fun, I thought. Even though it probably killed my Canadian satire essay. Oh, well, that essay had lots of problems, really.
You know what's weird: I might never write an essay again. What a strangely awful thought. Also weird: the fact that it is now cold and humid. Why does this city seem to be perpetually clammy? More weird: girl who just walked into the library looked just like the "this one time? at band camp?" girl from the American Pie movies.
I have nothing to say. I am groggy and damp and tense. The minor-celebrity-doppleganger might be the highlight of my morning. Maybe not. I maintain hope, though minor, that things will improve before noon. The afternoon will definitely be better, because I can go to the gym and be mindless, followed by meeting Kerry to mindful and literary, and then my very literary dinner party. It's a good thing I know so many smart people--they can fill in the blanks when I am like this. Whatever this is--I can't think of the noun right now.
Tomorrow will be better
RR
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