The Midwest is a simple place. It’s cold in the winter (more or less), warm in the summer (again, more or less), and that’s pretty much it. There are four actual seasons. Sometimes it snows, and when that happens, it does not give rise to public disorder. It’s great!
The South, though. Good lord. The City of Raleigh, at the time of this writing, is about to round the bend into week number two of 90-degree+ temperatures. 90 goddamn degrees! That’s too damn hot! That’s too hot to do a great many things, including, but not limited to:
-Go on a nice long walk
-Take the dog on a nice long walk
-Go to a restaurant with outdoor seating and sit outside
-Sit outside anywhere else
-Not blast the AC in one’s home, thus accelerating our certain doom
-Wear long pants
-Enter a parked car without thinking you maybe accidentally conjured a portal into the Abyss
You get the idea. The worst part of this is it’s May! MAY! It is still fucking spring, both by the actual, technical definition of the seasons and also by the loosey-goosey, month-based seasonal understanding apparatus I tend to use. It’s the second week in a row of 90-degree+ temperatures here, and it’s goddamn spring. If it ever cracked 90 prior to July in any other place I have lived previously, then the experience was so manifestly horrible that I repressed the fuck out of those memories, and probably for good reason.
This will only get worse; by the end of August, I suspect I will be less a functioning human being and more a gummy wad of butt and crotch sweat, having long since joined with the rest of my cells in a congealed wad of underpants, nestled and adhered to my ass crack. The peeling sounds and sensations I must now prepare myself for are the stuff of nightmares. This place is too hot, and this must be fixed. Let’s crash a meteor in an largely unpopulated area, or induce several extremely large volcanic eruptions, in order to correct this. It’s the only way.