Fuck me, it’s hot out. Already. Mrs. Wigglebottom and I came back from our walk and both just had to stand in front of the air vent and let the coolness blow on us.
The thermometer says 77, but I think that’s a count of how many minutes it takes before you don’t feel like you are about to die after coming in out of this stuff.
Everything has a kind of brownish haze. It’s just nasty.
And, with this post, complaining about the weather, I have officially sunk to a new low of old-people-ish behavior.
Tiny Cat Pants 
yikes….next we’ll hear about your aches and pains and who died.