You lot have saved me today.
My day blew goats. Summer's peeked in on Seattle. It'll run away screaming soon enough, but today it decided to grace us with scorching sun, oven-quality heat, and the kind of humidity that isn't really noticeable until you get overheated and discover your sweat has decided to shirk its cooling duties.
In this heat, I had to roll myself out of bed and venture down for an emissions test.
They ask you to turn off the air conditioner for better results.
Whilst there, I discovered that my tags expire tomorrow, not at the end of the month. So I had to scamper down to the licensing branch. In the heat. And humidity. And I took a wrong turn and ended up stuck in a New York-quality clusterfuck on a long, winding road that meanders along Lake Washington. In the midst of this, the gas light comes on. In a residential neighborhood. In bumper-to-bumper traffic that measures its progress in inches per hour.
I started sweating more. The nervous sweat joined the previous sweat's rebellion and refused to evaporate, and I had to turn the AC off in hopes I could preserve a precious bit of gas.
When I finally stumble into the licensing branch, it's bumper-to-bumper people. And it's hot. And I haven't had anything to drink in hours, and there aren't any chairs, and I haven't eaten, and by now I feel pretty pathetic.
I survive that only to get home and remember I promised my mother I'd call today. Calling my mother is a form of torture that would be banned under the Geneva Conventions, but is perfectly legal in the opinion of the Bush Administration. I spent a mind-numbing hour listening to stories of evil credit card companies, evil flu viruses, evil flu viruses killing a dog, evil meth-addicted neighbors poking sticks at the surviving dog and turning it mean, evil landlords raising rent, and then we had a segue into hating God but loving Jesus.
My sum total contribution to this conversation was several "Um-hmm. That's terribles" until at the end of an hour I could finally work in a regretful, "I've gotta go - I've got carnival work."
Thank you, my darlings, from the bottom of my heart, for providing me the excuse.
My headache and I went to bed, where we sweated to death and tried for a recovery nap. It didn't work. My brain felt like those little stained glass beads after they've been sitting in the oven for several minutes: a partially-fused, misshapen mass that looks as if no good could ever come of it.
Until I started reading your submissions. They brought me back to life. They made me laugh, made me think, made me shout out in appreciation. And this is only the beginning.
The delight of being a host is that you get one of the first looks at the incredible range and power of a group of people with different interests and backgrounds coalescing around a common theme. It's been a privilege and a joy, and it's not stating the case too strongly to say that you've rescued me. My brain has been restored, and it's all down to you.
Keep the submissions coming: email@example.com. We've got room for plenty more. And I can tell you from what I've seen so far that this Carnival of the Elitist Bastards is going to be among the greatest shows on Earth.
I really do love you, you Elitist Bastards you. Thanks for saving me.