Desert Boy

While I have a well-documented fondness for sweets, that's "Desert Boy" not Dessert Boy. As in, my people are a desert people, and this humidity is fucking killing me. Already. Mid-60s, chance of rain? Yeah, that means I'm sweating my balls off. Pouring sweat after walking a few blocks (and no, it's not the walking, dickheads). You'll never read about me complaining about the cold. Put on a hat, a jacket, and STFU. Simple enough. But I could walk down the street buck nekkid and still look like I was melting.

Despite my pissing and moaning, I've come to understand one thing: Manifest Destiny was not America's desire to dominate the continent, despite what your high school history textbook says; it was America's desire to find a place that was goddamn dry. 'Round about 1850, newspaperman Horace Greeley wrote (or did he?), "Go West, young man." But history forgets the rest of the quote, which reads "...and don't stop until you find a steady barometric pressure reading, consistent high pressure systems, and average humidity below 30%." Wise man.

Word is bond. Gold Bond.