The Perfect Temperature Is 74 Degrees


Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Go outside. I just did. The present temperature in Brooklyn? 77 degrees. A nice temperature. Good on the body. Breezy day. Hot sun on my body. Warm. Light and good. Then I imagine it three degrees lower. There it is. The perfect temperature: 74 degrees. Yes it is.

Look at mother. Nature’s mom. I prefer her precisely 74 degrees. Must have a warm breeze. A thermal solar breeze that envelops me, the air neither roasted nor chilled, neither barren nor humid, just clement. I return the sun’s glare, and there I see it: blue sky undraped, a scant semblance of clouds, a glimpse of heaven on a mild summer day.

Near the window, a beam breaks in where felines love to roast in the home, bellies up. In the park, a greasy man lays on the pasture. Dogs wrestle and bask. Sprinklers douse parched lawns. Wasps lurk, leaving tenants fearful.

Pigeons poop.

A child runs, falls, gets back up, bruised. Rough. Feel it. After the pain is light, sun, beams. Everything is right at 74 degrees. We drift, mindlessly awake, until dawn.

Life is nice at 74 degrees.

Inline Feedbacks
View all comments
Share Tweet Submit Pin