Pulling Oneself Up by One’s Bootstraps: a Cautionary Tale

It’s beastly hot today, one of those midsummer scorchers. It’s been that way all week, and my AC’s on the blink. I’ve been opening the door to the balcony—and to the bugs, as it turns out—but what’s a few bugs when you want for nothing?

Oh, I feel lazy. I’ve been on my back all day, flat as a manta with my feet sticking out. Prey for the ghoulies, I suppose, the monster under the bed.

I used to do that when I was wee, though I don’t remember it, stick my legs through the bars of my cot. Mother has a photograph, this white lump of blankets and red-stockinged legs, tiny red feet poking out. Very rigor mortis. (And very funny, Mother.) I just have one question: why was I sleeping in my stockings? Did I not have a nightgown? Did she just…put me down clothed?

I should get her to send me that picture. It is pretty funny.

Anyhow, I can’t be arsed with much of anything today. I’m all heavy and sweaty and choking on the heat, so here. It’s a video of me trying to pull myself up by my bootstraps.

It’s not terribly effective.

(These things so rarely are.)

Listening for the day: Adieu, fière cité.

Other activity: next to none.

And now, a prancing tortoise.