It’s hot. It’s fucking hot. Like, if Satan opened a sauna and charged admission, Tennessee would sue him for copyright hot.
Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are folks worse off than me. I’ve met them, prayed for them, and probably sweat on them too. But if you’re offended by complaining or swear words, keep scrolling—no need to clutch your pearls while I roast alive in my own house.
Act I: The Betrayal
There I was, minding my own sweaty business, when I noticed it felt a little toasty in my office. At first, I blamed the dog. He has a PhD in vent-blocking. But nope—vent was wide open. Thermostat said 78. I had it set to 74. That’s murder in Mississippi temperature.
I tried the classic “off and back on again” trick. Killed the power, waited 20 minutes, fired it back up. She cooled. I rejoiced. Twenty minutes later? 77.
“Fuck.”
Cool air was gone. Sanity was gone. Patience? Never existed. The only thing that did exist was hot flashes, high blood pressure and anxiety. I called the repair guy and let it simmer at 77.
Act II: AI & Cousin Sarcasm
In desperation, I asked AI for advice. It told me to check the filter. Spoiler alert: I live with 5 dogs, 2 cats, and a quilting bee’s worth of pet hair. The filter looked like a damn shag carpet. AI told me to replace it every 2 weeks. Every 2 weeks? Shit, I don’t even replace my underwear that often.
AI then casually suggested I open up the cover and check the compressor. WITH electricity involved. Excuse me? Me + live wires = obituary. Electricity and me? Not the best of friends.
Nope. I called my daughter’s cousin. AI was like, “Great, free labor!” Wrong. The only thing that man gives me for free is sarcasm. Henceforth, he is Cousin Sarcasm. Sorry David .
Repair guy shows up, shrugs, and basically says, “Ma’am, your AC is 10 years old. It’s just tired. Can’t keep up with humidity.” Translation: “Buckle up, buttercup. You’re screwed.”
Seriously? Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a Matrix where all the bad people go to live in a constant loop of doom.
Act III: Summer Fashion Week
So I’ve been marinating at 76 degrees for weeks. It’s fine—as long as I don’t move. If I attempt to clean? I’m in a wife beater and boxers. My new summer uniform. Forget lingerie—I’m serving Walmart chic. Sometimes I forget and get in my car wearing my kitty slippers and no bra. It’s the heat makes you do weird shit.
Act IV: The Igloo That Never Was
I ordered a window unit. Dreamt of sleeping under three blankets, nose hairs frozen, heart rate normal. Delivery delayed. And delayed again. I was practically writing love letters to this box before it even arrived.
When it finally did, the damn window screen was stuck tighter than a pickle jar lid. I fought it. Lost. Punched a hole straight through it. Said screw it, bent the frame like the Hulk, and shoved that unit in with duct tape and spite.
But plot twist—the unit was designed by folks who must live in the northern hemisphere . The gaps were so wide, I could see my neighbor grilling dinner. By this time I was sweat profusely
I sent photos to AI for help. AI gave me a whole Lowe’s shopping list. Said to turn the unit on cool off and come back, Even AI knew I was pissed. I said nope, boxed it back up, and kissed my igloo dreams goodbye.
Act V: Portable Hope (and FedEx Lies)
Found a portable unit online. Easy install! Easy removal! Delivery in 3–5 days! I tracked that sucker like it was Christmas. Delayed. Then delayed again. By this point, my blood pressure could power a windmill. Between the heat and hot flashes I was ready to extend the wardrobe to birthday suit , a cold beer and a cigar.
Finally, FedEx guy shows up with a box looking like it had been through a bar fight in Tijuana. Actually I went to Tijuana, once. woke up in a ditch, another story for another time. I still had hope. Opened it slowly, heart racing… and bam. Oil. Everywhere. Scratches. Used. USED. My igloo was secondhand swamp trash.
Refund requested. Dreams shattered. Serenity? Gone. My new plan is to store my boxers in the freezer like popsicles and pray I don’t stroke out before October.
The Final blow in the Matrix.
Oh, and did I mention the $7k I dropped on my car that still runs like shit? Or the big bucks crawl space dehumidifier I had to return? Yeah. I’m broke. So don’t ask me to buy your kid’s chili supper tickets, Girl Scout cookies, or wrapping paper. The only charity I’m funding is the Sock Drawer Survival Fund.
But hey—I’m alive. Barely.
ok, maybe the wrapping paper so I can wrap my pennies in it since this grinch will be handing out wish presents this year.
🔥 The End. (Please direct all sympathy, ice cubes, and margaritas my way.) 🔥
note: this was a 2.5 page satire and my editor cut it down, said my comedy needed to be short and sweet, as I tend to drag out the punchline.
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