No. Really. Kill myself. Dead. As in Death. Valley. Palm. Springs. Los. Angeles. At this point, it’s ALL just down the buckling, melting, sizzling street from me and it’s ALL the fucking same.

For those who don’t know, I grew up in Fresno and have an infamous, lifelong case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and, in contrast to what usually triggers others who are afflicted by this ruthless mental health condition, it is Summer that destroys my soul. I find the heat torturous and the scorching, sunny, desolate months between June and September as something merely to be endured. FML.

Consequently, I currently have the A/C crankin’ WHITE HOT and the goddamned Jean Nate on ice…and with today’s high temp of motherloving 107 here in fabulous Altadena, California, I am now settling into my usual Summertime routine:

1) Get on phone and obsessively check the 7 and 10 day forecast, desperately scanning the numbers for any semblance of hope. Read it and weep.

2) Plot own death by nasty means.

3) Raise fist to the heavens and curse god, even though I am an atheist.

4) Strip off all clothing except white, 100% cotton Target Granny Panties.

5) Drag my fatass to refrigerator.

6) Angrily snatch INDUSTRIAL-SIZED bottle of Jean Nate out of freezer.

7) Savagely remove Grannies. Unleash GUNT. Liberally spritz undercarriage with great abandon.

9) Execute motherfucking Bolshoi-worthy Grand Plié over industrial fan.

10) Weep with relief.

11) Repeat until either the smack or the rat poison kicks in — and trust me, at that point it don’t matter which one. It’s all about the sweet oblivion.

12) FUCK SUMMER.

13) Now, bring me that GOTTDAMNED OCTOBER, BITCHES.

That is all.