The Perfect Temperature Is 74 Degrees

Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Go outside. I just did. The present temperature in Brooklyn? 77 degrees. A nice temperature. Good on the body. Breezy day. Hot sun on my body. Warm. Light and good. Then I imagine it three degrees lower. There it is. The perfect temperature: 74 degrees. Yes it is.

Look at mother. Nature’s mom. I prefer her precisely 74 degrees. Must have a warm breeze. A thermal solar breeze that envelops me, the air neither roasted nor chilled, neither barren nor humid, just clement. I return the sun’s glare, and there I see it: blue sky undraped, a scant semblance of clouds, a glimpse of heaven on a mild summer day.

Near the window, a beam breaks in where felines love to roast in the home, bellies up. In the park, a greasy man lays on the pasture. Dogs wrestle and bask. Sprinklers douse parched lawns. Wasps lurk, leaving tenants fearful.

Pigeons poop.

A child runs, falls, gets back up, bruised. Rough. Feel it. After the pain is light, sun, beams. Everything is right at 74 degrees. We drift, mindlessly awake, until dawn.