I am a red head. (And goddamnmutherfucking proud of it—call me a “ginger”, you racist, and I’ll kill your whole family.) It’s above 80-degrees outside. Do you know what this means? (Besides that I'm grouchy, grouchy, GROUCHY?) It means that I feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. I feel like the air is boiling me to death. I feel like my face is on fire. Red heads don’t get tan lines. We get melanoma lines—the cancer stops at the sleeve. I went out for twenty minutes this morning, and the wretched holes where my eyes once were are still smoking. My dubious Northern European genes leave me completely unequipped to deal with heat, or light, or affection, of any sort. (It’s why I live in Seattle.) And see, this is quite tragic, and I’m sure to regret everything I missed today on Monday, when I will surely kill myself, because I had big plans to go to the Capitol Hill Block Party or what-have-you today (a silly little thing, you probably haven’t heard of it), and I should be there now (people are waiting!), but all I can manage is to lie (lay? I’m too hot to care) here in a puddle and listen to this…

...over and over on my iPod (sans Paul Shaffer, naturally), spread eagle in my dim room, under a fan set to Super Blast. I might muster the wherewithal to crawl from my hole and make my way out in two or so more hours, when the sun loses even more power, but now, at this frangible moment…I must be honest. Cat Power, general dimness, Apple products, a cooling electric breeze…I’m in hot red-head heaven.