...and my nausea wants to go puke. And I am pretty sure you all are tired of reading about this bullshit. Okay, I'll try to stop.
But I write about what I see. What I feel. What I've seen and felt. Me me me me. What, you want me to write about the kids? About how the wife and Nat were out on the porch today, cracking walnuts, and Johnny blundered out and kicked the entire bucket of freshly cracked walnut meat all over the grass and the dirt? And the wife made him pick up every damn one of them, on pain of death?
Or the heat we suffered through today, which will be ten degrees hotter tomorrow?
Or how it feels to have the sights of your 30-30 Winchester centered on the temple of the driver of the car that brought the guys to steal your car. How you want to squeeze it off so badly, but you say hey, not worth it, so you raise the sights a few inches and pull the trigger, and a tongue of flame leaps out into the night a good thirty feet, and their car, well, parts of it, explode into a cloud of shattered glass and torn window fittings.
And the gang leaps through shattered windows with their legs hanging out like shrimp, if shrimp wore blue jeans, and they speed away, and hey, thanks dudes! For leaving me a nice jack.
Whatever. Tomorrow promises to be hotter than the seal between Rosie's thighs. If I can survive til Monday, it should be back down to the 60's and 70's.
If you don't hear from me, I've melted...