Roasty

I lived in Abbotsford for four years while I was going to school, but I usually went home for the summer. The only summer I spent here, I was locked in a frigid basement classroom for the majority of the day.

So I never knew that the Fraser Valley was a crock pot.

We are in the middle of a heat wave, and there is no breeze off the ocean to help wipe the sweat from our collective brow, because the ocean is way over there. The UCFV campus is like an overbaked tomb. There are no boys playing frisbee and doffing their shirts, no girls laughing and tanning and watching the boys, because everyone who can conceivably be inside IS inside, hiding from this insideous heat. Everyone moves as slowly as possible, as if, by moving quickly, you might combust. It is too hot to cook, too hot to eat anything that isn't chips and salsa or bundt cake, too hot to focus on a grammar textbook.

I wish I were some sort of reverse-ground-hog, and could hibernate until the weather toned it down a bit.