NEEDLING

said a little old lady in her eighties buying a half gallon of cheap vodka from me today when I asked her how things were with her.

It’s deadingly – I’m sorry, sir, that is not a word – HOT... rather: It is so hot, it is deadening – maybe... not sure if this is the proper word usage, or if my brain is farting – abrutissant is what I'm trying to say. My A.C., a small window unit in the living room, cannot keep the house cool, it barely sputters gasp like efforts. Upon coming back from an eleven hour day at the liquor store, driving for half an hour in an A.C.-less car, I placed a sheet on the couch – forget the bedroom, it’s an oven – and attempted to take a nap. The couch is upholstered with orange velvet, and laying on it without a sheet is like placing oneself on a cooking stove. Nothing doing. What I need to be doing right now is write a couple of letters. However, my brain feels like refried beans. I’m afraid of what might come out. Here I am at my desk. What the hell, I’ll give it a shot, with the knowledge that I do have the option to NOT send what I write. And this is where things gets tricky. Do I have the ability to decipher passable communication from loopy blabber?