I Was Reduced To Consuming My Eyes

I would like to apologize to anyone in a cool climate who has received a phone call from me within the last twenty-four hours complaining about the weather. It is an unseemly thing to complain about.

But yesterday was something else, though: the hottest New Year's hangover on record. A hundred and eleven degrees is about enough to lightly poach my eyeballs in their sockets. The gutters were running with boozy sweat all day. I made it out of the apartment precisely once, on a desperate mission for groceries, and was sufficiently addled by the heat that all I could manage to buy was three kinds of fruit juice.

I blame NASCAR.