New York summers are always so hazy; the air's thick with water and pollution and the concrete makes for a pizza stone under your feet. I'd be lying if I said I didn't love it, but it gets a little same-samey after a while. I've already pulled a vacation with Sara earlier in the summer so stuck I am until the weather decides to back off.
The ennui with my current employment doesn't help. Art restoration in the wake of an alien attack sounds Very Important, but I've been on the same tapestry for three weeks now - the same panel of the same tapestry, point of fact, and while unicorns are lovely creatures, I'm going to hang myself with my needle if this doesn't start to progress any faster. Where are the simple crimes of yesteryear? I realize we've got more superheroes in Potts Tower than the Forces of Good know what to do with, but c'mon. Those with a philosophical bent can argue over whether good guys are even necessary when in such abundance. I'm bored. Do you know what happens when I'm bored? Peter worries more, first of all, and then a lot of circumstantial evidence piles up and I'm wearing orange again.