It is hot, and I hate it. I have the skin tone of an anemic vampire. My hair absorbs humidity like a loaf of stale bread, capable of swelling six-to-eight times its natural size. The sidewalks smell bad. I smell bad. The soundtrack of this and every summer is my incessant whining to the beat of a whirring fan. I don’t understand why anyone gets excited for this.

One of the only things that makes summer ever-so-slightly sufferable is remembering that ice cream floats exist. It’s incredible that I barely think of them at all (if ever) in the fall, winter or spring. Once the temperature drops below 75 degrees, I seem to delete every memory that involves me being uncomfortably moist. As I rarely drink ice cream floats in comfortable, climate-controlled conditions, they end up feeling like a new discovery every year. That pleasant surprise doesn’t make up for feeling like I’m being air-fried by the elements, but it’s still something to enjoy in supremely unenjoyable times.