It's so goddamn hot. Let's start there.
Derrick Lewis, one of the fighters fighting at UFC 250 tonight, once took off his shorts post-fight, revealing black compression boxer briefs. When asked why, he simply replied: “my balls was hot.” Never in my life have I related so much to a sentiment that does not apply to me at all.
I'm at the second day of UFC Freedom 250 Fan Fest in DC and it's so goddamn hot I'm not even sure what to say about it.
I'm here writing for Slate. “But Laura, didn't you say you were done with legacy media?” I did. Then I had a huge story about joining ICE and conditions changed in a big way for me as a freelancer. So here I am, still trying to figure out the future.
It's too hot to write, too hot to think, too hot to be alive. This morning, the first of my two Slate articles dropped: this one about why I’ve loved MMA so much for the last two decades and why I'm so angry about what Dana White and Donald Trump have done to it. You can read that article here.
It's so hot. I pray for the sweet release of death. Hell could not possibly be hotter than this. More tomorrow.
I'm truly sorry to hear that you are suffering, Laura. But I am quite glad to hear that this birthday party is as miserable as it should be for all concerned. Thank you for your service! Please dont get sick!
Iconic piece. Thank you for creating it.