People who know me well know I hate heat. I hate summer. I hate sweating. I hate humidity. I hate insects. I hate that I’m inconveniently allergic to all living things, small or large, especially grass (and it’s not like there’s much of that!). There’s a lot of hate to go around when it comes to summer. I like the chilly decay of autumn and the brutal, nut-frosting cold of winter. The only thing that bothers me about winter is the way traffic grinds to a halt if it starts flurrying. Numerous almost-ending-up-in-a-ditch moments have allowed me to tolerate people driving more carefully in an actual snowstorm, but when there’s salt on the road and barely anything coming down, drive the fucking speed limit or kill yourselves so I don’t have to get stuck behind you, you goddamn retards.
But I digress…
Heat bothers me. Last summer’s career-crisis-induced panic attacks were only exacerbated by the sweltering heat and the terrifying specter of anaphylaxis. I haven’t had an issue with that this year, thanks to months of intensive emotional exploration and some magic pills, but there’s still the heat. The fucking heat!
Right now, as I type this, my desk is sticky with humidity. I repeat: my desk, which is 100% indoors, is hot, sticky-sweet, from its head to its feet, yeah. Which fucking sucks, man.