You feel it. Like the fastest first kids screeching out of the schoolhouse in the afternoon. Coming to shatter your acclimated calm. Summer. Texas heat. Saturated wet that hangs off your arms like bratty nephews. Off you vile spawn!
“You okay?” some ask.
“Yeah…don’t do well in the heat,” I say. I know how I look. Pale, clammy skin. Flushed red circles around my eyes. Matted hair. Dude. I don’t do heat.
At least humidity. Iraq? Yeah, not too bad. Hot as balls, but not too bad. Dryness helped ease the soul into the searing furnace. It’s that wet feeling, under layers and layers of uniform, that makes me uncomfortable, and probably sweat more.
And those air conditioned pampered princes of PowerPoint, with their manicured evaluation sheets and stylized job descriptions, spitting condescending condemnations at the tepid tone of my required requiems; do betray their languid soldiery with their exacerbating expectations of what they think makes “good chartmanship.”
Keep your awards and rewards for another ass-kissing monkey. Summer in Texas approaches, but Salmons is free!
Come thou fount of promised orders, o’ Army of mine! Don’t disappoint. Tell me of when I can fly henceforth to cooler climes and softer social circumstance. And too, toward a job that doesn’t make me wretch at the sound of the alarm.
Drunk? Yes. Tired? Yes. Bed? Yes.