I was wrong about the weather. It hasn't broken. It's not even cracked. It's still ONE THOUSAND DEGREES in this city.

Where is the fog San Francisco is so famous for? The rain? The smell of fireplaces struggling to warm damp homes, of pumpkin pie and hot chocolate, of muni windows steamed with the booze-heavy heaves and wet hair, wet wool, and wet cavities of too many riders standing impossibly close?

With face turned heavenward, and with eyes squinting into the searing sun, I ask. How about a few sprinkles? A mist, maybe? Cool breeze? I don't need to be wearing powder pants or anything, but is it too much to ask for some cute-scarf weather, what with this being LATE OCTOBER and et cetera? I mean, I'm still having horrible, abusive MOSQUITO NIGHTS here. Marbles is so mad from the heat she's been biting my ankles and the soft, soft fat of my arm backs!

Do you hear me? OK then, how about a little eye contact? This decolletage needs some time off, my calves beg for the indentation of warm, argyle knee-highs, my toes want to be wrinkled by the greenhouse of tights trapped in boots.

I mean it! This is complete horseshit ... and it's coming straight out of the asses of the horses of the four riders of the apocalypse.

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)