It Could Be Worse, I Could Be A Roofer

It will be in no way cathartic to complain about the heat. It will do neither you nor I a damn bit of good at all. I don't pretend to be about to say anything at all about the weather that is original, insightful, creative or thought-provoking. In fact, I may not even complain about the weather at all. I may just warn you that I am about to do so and about to do so in an insipid manner.
There's no relief from it anywhere, it seems. It's even hot at night. The house never cools down at all. The heat wraps itself around me all the time and squeezes and holds tight. Sloth doesn't help. I've tried. My brain is wrapped up by the weather and can't see anything beyond. Humidity - who'd have thought humidity has weight. It does, I tell you, and it presses down on me and wearies me so. I won't describe what things smell like. Or what I smell like. I can't bring myself to mention the flies. The air is stagnant, makes me stagnant, makes my thoughts stagnant, makes my posts stagnant. I'm tired. I can't even imagine a cool breeze. Time for another shower.