It's only the hottest day of the year so far. My Secret's out. Literally. Platinum my behind. That junk is platinum-plated, yo.
(And no, the heat wasn't still on either. I know this because that didn't really work too well itself during the blustery brrrgatory otherwise known as winter in the Northeast. I spent no less than 90% of the wintry months wearing gloves with the fingertips cut off them. I thought about asking for brass knuckles for the company gift swap, but I figured with the impending Kwanzaa e-mails I'd threatened to send (and actually sent) they probably felt that this black girl was trouble enough.)
The heat has really done me in.
It's 80 plus degrees outside. I've no windows, there's nothing going through the vents and my poor desktop fan is just circulating the stagnation. Right now, there is so much "condensation" in my back fat canals that I could seriously irrigate, like, half of sub-Saharan Africa.
I need some Gatorade.
You know how the Hulk got angry and would then turn green? (Of course you know this. Who else does that? Gracious. The heat. It totally drains me.)
Well, I react in a similar manner in that the heat, especially when it's just sitting upon my being as it is now (and I'm not even claustrophobic), activates my nerves ... you see, the perspiration causes the various everlasting nerve endings to short-circuit. I don't change colors, though; I stay black. But a ferocious morphing of the attitude takes place where I become Samuel L. Jackson as Jules Winnfield, but in girl form:
And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to deprive and damn near suffocate me ... I don't wanna hear about no motherckufin' TBDs. All I wanna hear from your a$$ is, You ain't got no problem, Julesie. I'm on the motherckufer. Go back in there, chill that A/C out and wait for the breeze which should be coming directly ...
I mean, I'm so Jules Winnfield that some sweat dripped off my fro' a few minutes ago and I thought I had grown a gheri curl.