There's a song by Siouxsie and the Banshees on their Tinderbox album that I remembered today. It starts with a dialogue about how at 92 degrees Fahrenheit the murder rate skyrockets. Not higher, not lower, at exactly 92 degrees. I can buy into that. On the T this morning, people were just itching for a fight with the heat and humidity until some guy in a suit went off at another guy who was admittedly annoying (singing along to the tunes on your iphone is never really socially acceptable) but harmless. Luckily, the aircon kicked in just in time before elbows got thrown, but my hunch was that the temperature hit that critical point of maximum tension where you are as uncomfortable as you can get but not so hot as to make you apathetic.
Shortly afterwards, I was nearly hit by a shortbus outside and wanted to stab the driver in they eyes. Maybe the temperature. Maybe just a pressure valve. This heatwave is sapping me.
