Summer can kiss my ass. I’m already sick of this damn heat, and we’ve still got two more days of heat index warnings to crawl through. Walking outside feels like getting slapped in the face with a wet furnace. You don’t even have to do anything. Just stand there for thirty seconds and you’re sweating like you’re trying to hide a body. Whoever decided this is “beautiful weather” probably thinks cargo shorts belong in a business meeting.

The older I get, the less impressed I am with summer. When I was a kid, summer meant riding bikes until the streetlights came on. Now it means checking the weather app every ten minutes to see if the sun has finally decided to stop trying to murder everybody. The humidity doesn’t even make sense anymore. You breathe in soup and somehow your shirt is soaked before you’ve finished locking the front door.

People always say, “Enjoy it. You’ll be complaining about winter soon.” Wrong. At least in the winter I can put on another hoodie. When it’s ninety-five degrees with a heat index that belongs on the surface of Mercury, there’s only so many layers you can take off before the neighbors start calling the cops. Heat is just nature’s way of reminding us that air conditioning was one of humanity’s few genuinely good ideas.

So here’s to surviving two more days of this sweaty dumpster fire. I’ll be inside, parked in front of a fan, questioning every life decision that involves leaving the house. Wake me up when it’s hoodie season. That’s real weather.