Hot. Very, very, very hot.

We have now reached the point where I step outside and moan. I hate summer in the south. It's just thick and oppressive and I suffocate within the excessively high temperatures. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Actually, I feel sick in general. I sent a draft of the paper I finished today (yay!) to Boss, then decided I'd lie on the couch and do a little reading.

"A little reading of a book by me." I said out loud with no small amount of satisfaction.

So I flopped down, arranged the pillows as I like them, and picked up the first stack of pages I'd clipped together.

"Well, hell." I said with much less satisfaction as I started chapter 5. "I think this is really boring." Trying to decide if it was too much background or too many characters, I reclipped the pages and tossed them on the floor. I've edited the first chapters so many times already - I'm just not sure what's wrong.

I decided to watch television for a bit, so I was all cozy on the couch while Sprout played and Chienne rested in the chair across the room. The air conditioner is set at 70 and all was well. I placed my hand on my stomach when I felt it get inexplicably hot. But I continued to smile at CBS sitcoms and realized the heat had spread into my back.

I decided it would pass if I just ignored it. When I picked up my hand to dab at my forehead a moment later, the heat had encompassed me completely. I was shaky and dizzy, sweating profusely and burning up. I emailed Friend, then emailed again to tell her she should not ignore someone who was clearly dying, then took a Tylenol in hopes that it would cure me from whatever the hell was wrong with me.

The plan was to finish reading my novel (too boring) then to write a post responding to Earnest English's comment that I'm so productive. Much as I adore flattery, the short version is that I'm not impressive at all. I tend to work all the time or not at all and this happens to be a set of days spent doing little more than sitting at my laptop. I also have very little life. Which could explain the boring novel.

My explanation for the hot sickness is that the south - which I have so bitterly attacked with scathing criticism in the recent hot days - has possessed my body and will punish me for hiding in the air conditioning as often as possible. Either that or I have a serious problem and won't have time to fix my poor book.

I'll let you know. (And elaborate on work patterns, which I think is interesting, but I'm too hot to figure it out.)