Roasted alive, or how I came to think I was so important

I'm not much of a narcissist. In fact, I doubt there is anyone I know who would label me as such. However, I'm pretty sure Texas is trying to kill me. Or at least beat me into submission.

My apartment is like a sauna but much less comfortable. It has become my latest obsession- this heat! It all I can think about or talk about or write about. Parts of me stick together that I never thought possible. I'm googling "blocks o'ice" looking for something to put in front of my oscillating fan. How did I used to wear hoodies all summer long? Clearly the activity of my youth has rotted my brain and ruined my bodies ability to regulate itself.

My vintage apartment is kept cool by an equally vintage window unit. Actually, my third unit in as few years. They keep dying and now I think I understand- they just want to be free! Last night it was actually cooler outside than it was inside and I cried for the first time in forever that was not directly related to a movie about puppies, sudden death, or Mandy Moore. Sometime around 5 AM I called my apartment manager and left a message threatening death and/or dismemberment if the problem was not resolved. I packed up my belongings, pet the cat on the head (and hoped he'd make it), and drove to work. To sleep. So sad.

So now I'm operating on about an hour of actual rest and a liter of coffee (thank you to my lovely friend who brought me Starbucks when the work machine was broken).

So, Texas; bring it on! I love you but I will hurt you if I have to. You would do go to remember all the nice things I've done for you, like that one time I thought about recycling or did not throw my kleenex out the open car window (even though I'm pretty sure birds will use it to make their homes). Keep it up and I'm leaving. It's not me, it's you.