3:36 pm | 27 August 2003 | hot hot hate

As Larry, the floridly haggard caterer, mentioned to me this morning, it has become Fly Season in Chicago. I did not realize in any kind of concrete fashion (until today) that flies actually have their own season, but it's true: they do; moreover, it could be subtitled as so:

Fly Season:
The Motherfucking Disgustingest Time of the Year.

My friends, I am not jesting when I say this. The weather as of late is the meteorological equivalent of a naked present-day Marlon Brando putting you into a headlock and then inserting his tongue into your ear, which is to say: NASTY. Moistly nasty, too. The heat index tops 100�F every day and stays that way (Lionel Ritchie breakdown) alllll night long, while the amount of exertion required to open a single Otter Pop, desperately, at 3am, caused me to break a sweat. No, not just break it: as I stood in the briefly cool breath of the freezer and snipped the top off the Otter Pop, a bead of sweat, aided by gravity, left my forehead travelling at 2 mph and busted a left past my nose, skipping the neck altogether and plopping mighty unpleasantly into my cleavage which, despite its relative modesty, was already sweaty and disgusting, too. It is revolting and makes me want to weep, but the effort I have been putting into such things as "breathing" and "remaining upright" has sapped my energy.

In other news, I am fat. No (hand up), not terribly so: i am still at the low end of the BMI or whatever, but I have honed in on the fact that it's not about overall misogynistic beauty image/body politic stuff--it's actually really personal and aimed only at myself. I don't think all women should be thin; I just have spent so long identifying with wraithy emaciated women artists & poets (Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, PJ Harvey, Lucie Brock-Broido--slim creatures, all of them) that it seems incongruous within the confines of my self-image to be, um, sturdy. It's like in my mind you can't be dramatic and sorrowful and intense and whatnot if you're a chubbette--incongruous--the same way you'd never put James Bond in those neon-colored swimshoes, or Audrey Hepburn in a beer-drinking hat. Il ne compute pas.

I'll get over this new hurdle as soon as it's less hot, I swear, but this retarded swamp of air is multiplying the hatred by a bazillion. Puffy, angry, and brillig in the slithy toves; nevertheless, I remain. love. clm.

p.s. in a fit of, er, something, i got a guestbook, since y'all non-DLanders can't leave me notes; we'll see how this goes.