My apartment is literally one thousand degrees. I know Dane Cook would be on my case now for exaggerating like “Uhhh no it’s not. You are exaggerating. It is not one thousand degrees. You are a liar.” But if I’m exaggerating, it’s minimal. Un-air-conditioned Hyde Park apartments heat up to suffocating temps in the summertime; something I did not know until recently.
Anyway, it is truly too hot to sleep, too hot to eat, too hot to type, so I’m going to go sit on the beach for a few hours and read a book and splash around in the apparently E.coli-infected waters.