I know how melting butter would feel when spread on hot toast, if butter could feel, which I'm pretty sure it can't. My brain feels as though it were the consistency of butter, even though it isn't, because, if it were, I would be dead and unable to complain about the heat.
All metaphor fails me. I am worthless until the weather is cooler and dryer. Sluggo, enraged at being made to work under these conditions, shut himself down three times last night, twice so far today. For once, I can't blame him. I will shut myself down, now.