Half-Baked

Cruising up Highway 14 on my way back from Chicago, I began to feel my flesh boil. My left arm, slung carelessly out the window for the past two hours, was now sending a signal to my brain. NO MORE!

I found myself in a tough spot. No sunscreen. A tank-top. An hour left to drive.

I tried every twisted, contorted position, short of driving with my ass. Nothing worked. I reached my right arm across my chest to try and even the burn, no luck. I must have looked severely crippled. I had to settle for wearing just the one sleeve of my hoodie. I feel like a lobster who was only dipped halfway in the pot.

Now I sit here at work. One shoulder red. One shoulder white.

I'm still pink in the middle.