Writers who blow.

I mean like, there is this whole drug-culture of writers, of which I am only partially ensconced. H.S.T. the noble laureate is my crime to fine; art writer worthy of not and notably read most of his work, if not all.

But, I'm writing on a drug tonight called heat-head-ache. Oh, the nobless, the pound-thumping is back. And no it isn't dehydration. Clear and copious is the word. And no it isn't food related, or salt related, or mineral related. This one is likely not even nose related, but that hasn't been ruled out. No, it's just a good old fashioned migraine. Apparently I get them, in the heat especially. But more-over it's a weather system change that brought it on.

The cause of this heat-wave which is to continue to up-ward towards mid-week? High-pressure. High-pressure means crushing brain-melt.

It's not that I'm complaining. Head-aches are like hot-tubs; they're hot, but they make normal feel better relatively.

But the best part about living on my own is never wearing pants. Well, it's never willing to wear pants. Or never having the will to wear pants when it's hot, it's heat.

So to skirt a complain I find it's easier to describe these feelings.

My eyes are warm.
My hands are greasy.
My nose feels big.
My head is sloshy.