The Pandemic Soul

I’m sweating as a I write this. My back feels all wet and drippy against this pleather office chair. I have an overhead ceiling fan on, a window fan that’s on “exhaust” (blowing air out), and two fans running in the other room to try and bring cool air in. It’s still fucking hot in here. And by “here” I mean “Los Angeles.”

I thought this was the sunny/comfortable city? What the hell happened to constant 70 degrees? I get the whole “sunny” thing — it hasn’t rained here in like, I don’t know, forever. But why is it hot at 8:30pm at night? Why damnit, why?

Moreover, why do I have to suffer when I have a wall-unit air conditioner? Ha ha. Funny story! See, every time I turn it on, my throat swells shut and I can’t swallow anything without shoving heavier food on top of it. Like, not even pills go down without trying to swallow food over it.

Even my poor dog is suffering:

Which is why I just bought an air conditioner, much to the screaming objections of my credit card debt.

I don’t dare call my landlady and demand she replace the biological weapon mounted in my wall, since she’s completely neurotic and will probably tell me that Jesus wants me dead. Don’t laugh — when I didn’t have a pen to write my deposit check with, she said that if she couldn’t find one in her purse, then the Holy Spirit was telling her that I’m not the right person for this apartment. Now I’m beginning to think that’s true.

And to make matters worse? My across-the-hall neighbor has left his kitty-shit tied up in a plastic bag on the landing outside our door for the past 24 hours because he’s too lazy to bring it down to the dumpster out back. And I’m too stubborn to do it for him. So we both suffer!