After years and years of mild toe and ear frost-bite, below freezing temperatures, snow up to my ass and an omnipresent state of moist, damp socks, I thought I would never reach a state where I would long for winter. Well, fuck it. Give me snow. Bury me in permafrost. New York City in the summer is twisted form of Hell and I’ve fucking reached my boiling point. I’m ready to go rabid shih-tzu on something.

I’ve dealt with 100+ degree days many times before in Vermont, but there you have the benefit of clean air as well as much less congestion and grime. Here in New York, stepping out into the street feels almost like slipping into a hot bath. Hitting a major street is like having wool blankets thrown over your head, while is this same bathtub. The heat coming from all the cars more than noticeably jacks up the discomfort. It’s nasty, but not half as bad as going underground to take the subway.

Subway platforms are the single worst place to be in New York during a heat wave. Above-ground is hot, dirty and disgusting. Beneath the streets is worse—concentrated heat and grime, coupled with screeching train noise and crowds of moist assholes. I’ve always heard that violent crimes jump during heat waves and I’ve never doubted it.

Standing in the dead heat, with my clothes sticking to me as a dirty ceiling fan blows oven-hot air about, I want to kill everyone. Luckily the reality of exerting myself to commit mass homicide is too much to bear. It’s too hot to go postal and I’m far too pretty for prison. Those people that are responsible for the crime rate jump on these hot days must have balls of ice, because for me, just walking from point A to B is hard enough.

With recent slimy, sticky and disgusting heat and humidity I and the rest of New York City have had to deal with, I’ve discovered a new quirk of mine. Humidity gives me nightmares. For the past three nights, I’ve tossed, turned, awoke with a start and have been all around miserable, going about the day feeling like I’ve not slept at all.

I live with an air conditioner, but I don’t use it. Coming from Vermont, I was raised with the belief that air conditioning was for sissies and out-of-towners. I realize that since having relocated to New York City, this position has become a shade retarded, but I stick with it for some reason, even though living without it is more than a little bit of an ordeal. I have never lived in an air conditioned home and part of me wants to keep it that way. However, there’s not much to envy in a home life punctuated with clogged pores, an ability to stick to any surface and a propensity for blind, spastic bitchiness.

Normally, liberal applications of cold showers and alcohol keep my spirits level, but with this new addition of nightmares, I’m considering breaking my oath to shun canned air. I’m a slightly sticky and morose walking zombie. Perhaps it’s time to plug the damn thing in.