It gets so hot and if you are like me you are having trouble getting out of bed and also you are crying at bad episodes of bad television, picking books up and putting them down again, picking up different books, putting them all down, picturing yourself pacing around the room of your own head, rinse, wash, repeat. Around around around. Last night I got in a fight on the street about noodles, last night when it was ten pm and still ninety degrees which I know is not that hot if you are from, say, Florida, but it is real hot if you are a crybaby from Seattle, standing in the middle of Chrystie yelling "I DON'T FUCKING WANT SPICY NOODLES I WANT COLD NOODLES" at someone who did not deserve this opprobrium but probably won't read this for months so I should say sorry in person.

I meant to tell you about books to read, I swear to god, or I meant to tell you about my book even, which is good, I promise, or god maybe it isn't I actually have no idea, but lately everything has felt very exhausting in a global north kind of way, a what do you mean I have to get out of bed to earn a living don't you know I am an artist kind of way, and so that's where I am at. There is a lot I could be grateful for if I were not such a bitch but also sometimes even in the most luxurious of environs a person does get tired, and what do you do with it. Capitalism makes everything really fucking weird.

But I did mean to say things that weren't depressing. I can't remember what they were. Like maybe today is the day I can take a break and watch videos of kittens and have faith that the revolution is coming and the antarctic ice shelf will totally not collapse and there will be comprehensive healthcare and basic human rights for everyone and my coworkers will stop clogging the sink with coffee grounds that I will have to spend twenty minutes painstakingly removing with a chopstick and we are not on the brink of the end of everything but it's hot and the summer here takes forever and I can't really think that well. Every year I get this useless this time of year and every year it's still an unwelcome surprise. Some summers it is a very real and debilitating depression and some summers, like this one, it is more a kind of miasma that colors my whole life and renders me feeble and ineffectual and disinterested in everything except bad episodes of bad television and the most mindless fiction I can get my hands on, and you would think I would learn to live with it and not spend the remainder of my time berating myself for my multitude of daily failures, today for example I am angry with myself for not at least going to the beach and having some goddamned fun like a goddamned normal person in the summer, but that is not the kind of person I am and if you are still reading this blog that is probably not the kind of person you are either. So here we are, fueled by our own inability to just chill the fuck out, which is indeed a formidable engine although not perhaps the most efficient one. Yesterday I did write the first two hundred words of my second book, which was exciting, and I think forty of them were pretty good, which is even more exciting, and sometimes there is that whole thing of, like, around me the whole world is falling apart and here I am writing fiction about teenagers, but you know. Whatever. It's all I know how to do besides copyediting and ordering office supplies and pitching fits about kinds of noodles. I mean that's not entirely true but you know what I mean.

Anyway, next week it's not supposed to be so hot.