If I could say anything to the world today, it would be that summer approaches. It's grown steadily warmer inside the house, and soon, the dogged whirling of the ceiling fan will be no match for the heavy, sticky heat. When that day comes, Roomie will rinse the AC filters, and the aging behemoth in the living room will drown out the television with its lugubrious hum. If anyone were to drop in on us during the summer, they'd assume we were deaf, victims of thirty years of listening to metal at high volume, because the volume has to be set in the twenties to compensate for its neighbor's throaty roar.

By June, the bedroom will be sauna. The small wall unit will take the edge off, but I will still wake in the morning with sweat tricking into the crack of my ass. Such is the price you pay for living in an uninsulated shanty in the South. And yet, miserable as it can be when your hair is plastered to your scalp in an unbecoming clump and you're swilling fluids to stay ahead of dehydration, I wouldn't change it. This town is flawed, and sometimes I dream of Tallahassee and the safe routine of easy excellence, but it's quiet and peaceful, and its isolation has allowed me to save up for adventures like Dragoncon and Rammstein in Vegas.

Speaking of houses, my mother bought a villa in Florida. Because why not? Never mind the four properties she already owns down there; she needs this one, too. Oh, and by the way, she and PC will be moving down there this fall. Apparently, they've decided to become stereotypical snowbirds and winter in Florida while spending their summers here. She claims it's because my grandmother is getting frail, but I suspect she's just lonely and homesick and restless again.

It's her life and her money to do with as she pleases, but I shudder to think of the property and estate taxes with which she's going to saddle me when she finally succumbs to the COPD she steadfastly refuses to acknowledge. Mayhap I'll be able to sell a few when the time comes.
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