At the end of last summer, my roommate helped me take my AC unit out of my window and the front plastic covering shifted and broke a little, which consequently popped the tiny fan control knobs right off. (I hope my landlord isn’t reading this, but if you are: TJ, I’m sorry, but also, maybe can you help?) It might not be fixable. But it’s fine; I’ve been through air conditioning-less summers before. They’re not so bad with a fan and a steady supply of popsicles. Waking up at 5 a.m. because even then it’s so godawful hot just means I’ll get more reading done. And time isn’t real, anyways. I mean, it is, in that I still have obligations, I still have to be at work at a certain time, I still have to walk those dogs on the weekends. But days feel sluggish and syrupy, fogged by a strangely cozy haze of heat exhaustion. It’s a season of an otherwise rarely felt abandon and acceptance: I will sweat within moments of going outside, the sweat will drip down my face and sting my eyes, I will smell bad for the rest of the day, and so will you. This is how it goes. (Rebekah Kirkman)

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