PSA: Never, Ever Sleep In The Hotbox
I’m commandeering the word ‘hotbox’ (sorry potheads). I am going to redefine it as such:
Hotbox: A car with windows up in crazy heat where a particular idiot takes a nap and boils his brains.
That beanie isn’t a fashion statement. It’s what keeps my brains from boiling out of the pores of my skin after I pull an idiotic stunt like sleeping in my car with windows up and sun blazing down on it. I did this today for the upteempth time. You would think I would have learned by now how bad it is for the grey matter to do this, but nooooooo, I am a creature of ridiculously dumb habits. After a hearty late lunch, I got sleepy carb poisoning syndrome, looked at my car and decided it was time for my beauty nap. I completely forgot that I was in the direct rays of the afternoon sun and when I woke I was gasping, drenched in sweat and had a colossal headache. I sent down half a liter of water in one gulp and quickly threw the door open and elegantly slopped onto the sidewalk to make my escape. As I turned my head to look inside my car, I could see the heat waves emanating from within like a fire demon laughing and making its triumphant exit. Today, I have battled the forces of hellfire in my slumber and clearly, hellfire won. Note to self: I am not Pyro the Amazing Master of Heat and Flame. I’m giving my car a new name: Easy Bake (sue me, Hasbro).
What does this have to do with writing?
Exactly, what does this have to do with writing?
My brain is so addled that I don’t even know. It’s now early evening and I haven’t written a single word till now because of my momentary brain fart lapse in reason. Does a story for your amusement count?
Here’s to a smarter tomorrow.
– Harebrained Rabbit