Today I woke up on the wrong side of the couch. ‘The couch?’ you ask. Yes, the couch, because the living room is where my terribly insufficient window AC is located, whirring and wheezing its way to not really cooling down my apartment. My bedroom, a swamp of heat, is impenetrable; however, I must go in once a day to retrieve an outfit. The cute, clean shirt of which will, in a matter of seconds, be shellacked to my body. Alas, I sing no song different from any other NYC dweller in ass-hot August.
When I got to the subway platform (a very special place to be in the summer) it was packed. This only means the train will also be packed. Sticky commuters strap-hanging their armpits out for all the world to smell. To my left, a rather large man whose light grey shirt was artfully spotted dark grey in sweat. To my right, hipster chick’s iced coffee condensation dripping all over my arm. Who hearts NY?! I DO!
Finally, here in the “temperature-regulated” office I sit, my [illegal] space heater cranking on my bare legs and toes. My fingernails, purple as a type. The AC in the building is just too damn strong.
Pictured: the temperature in my apartment, as the lil-AC-that-couldn’t recorded