Swelter

After a few days respite from the heat, we're headed back into the nineties. The sourgrass will wither fast, and the lawn will probably turn brown unless I water the hell out of it, which I can't afford to do. The sourgrass might survive a bit longer due to the extreme over-watering it got the other night. The soil is well saturated there. But I fear the lawn is doomed to a quick death.

The cicadas are beginning to screech, too. It's my least favorite summer sound. In fact it's the summer sound I hate. Hearing cicadas is like having tinnitus. Just when I need to keep my windows open all night to cool the house down, those wretched bugs have to begin making their annoying call. There's no escaping it. They are edible, of course, so I could go out and catch as many as I can and devour them, but the thought of eating such an unpleasant looking but is more repellent than the noise they make— though just barely. I wish the cats would eat them for me.

My tendency to become comatose in the evenings is growing stronger, and the approaching heat wave is apt to strengthen it further. I keep forgetting to make non-decaffeinated coffee to counteract it early in the evening. By the time I remember I have a tasty drug available, it's too late to take it because I've already had my unintended nap. Oh, summer.