Memories of Warmth (In the Tundra of the Present)

We’ve been suffering near constant snow in Scotland for the last three months. The temperatures have plummeted far below the average and the grass is long-dead. I am now in mourning for the sun, which was seemingly dismantled and sold for scrap in late October.

I hark back to the days when He shone upon me. To the ease in which I could rouse myself from slumber when His rays streamed through my bedroom windows. To flaming June, 2010, in all its sickly warmth:

I have things to do, but I’m too hot to work.

I’m slowly going insane here. The heat is comparable to that found in an Asian sweatshop at the heady heights of an economic boom and, from the Turkish sauna which is now my office, I can see the wispy waves of summer haze rising from the tarmac into the near-molten air. There’s a four foot high fan in the corner of this intolerably hot room, brought in by the fat grease ball off to my right. He actually carried this metallic monstrosity under his arm for the entirety of his twenty minute bus journey today. He has it jammed in high gear and it’s making a whining noise which reminds me of the slaughter of a young pig. It’s mocking me; casually rotating so that the outer edge of my right ear senses a refreshing residual of luxuriant air current, before twisting its silver neck back round and providing an invigorating rush of cool o-zone dead in the face of its owner.

The aggression is growing now. I hate the man. For no other reason than his face looks cool and sweat free. We call him “The Sasquatch”, chiefly due to his ominous build and impressive accumulation of body hair. He looks as if he could pull the head clean off a Jack Russell Terrier without so much as a second thought. He’d probably even be able to force himself to eat the carcass whilst the blood was still running warm. A dangerous man, however cool his core temperature remains. Best not upset him.

I can feel the sweat pooling around my testicles, like a warm salty bath. This can’t be healthy. At the very least, my sperm count must be decreasing by the second. Thank Christ I never plan to have children.

This heat is truly stunning, as the dusty smog of the city centre helps trap the noxious greenhouse gasses and magnify the radiant glare from that vicious yellow beast.

Fuck it, I’m heading out… On days like these, in a place like this, the sun is too strong and too rare to ignore for any length of time. I will, at the very least, bathe my right arm in the Glasgow sunshine whilst speeding down the motorway and pondering more important matters. All the while further cultivating the legendary truckers tan. Lobster red and just enough mole coverage to trigger thoughts of skin cancer. Let the good times roll…

Filed under: White Party: Black Tie by fent11111
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