it doesn't snow where you're going

As I sit at my dust filled computer desk, rolly chair squeaking, fans blazing, heat paralyzing, I realize something's got to give. The laptop screen is burning holes in my face as the sun attempts to do the same on the back of my neck. My dog is panting like he just ran a marathon and my sweat-drenched underwear is attempting to do things only reserved for toilet paper. Cold showers keep the body temperatures just under boiling for about as long as it takes to dry off, and then sweat appears where water once was. With just the thought of exerting even a minuscule amount of energy I get tired. But not the good kind of tired where you fall asleep as soon as your face hits the pillow. No, that doesn't exist in this environment. This is the kind of tired where you lay in bed for hours on end, not trying to move or touch anything for fear you might drown in your own sweat. The other side of the pillow is just as hot as the original, the fans feel like someone is breathing on you after drinking a gallon of hot tea, and you're pretty sure if its not your own sweat you drown in, it will be all the moisture in the air that stops you from breathing. I could practice my cannonballs in mid-air the humidity is so strong.
As much as I wish I could stop complaining, there is an equal amount of nothing I can do about it. Moving to a different room requires too much effort, and even if it didn't it would be the equivalent of jumping from one furnace to another. My fans might as well be keeping hot air balloons afloat, and being naked is as appealing as wearing clothes. It just depends on what I feel like sticking to. Some days I don't even bother wearing deodorant, I know its just gonna end up running down my side, meet the sweat streaks down my spine, and mix in the Mississippi River delta that is my boxer briefs. A quick glance at the forecast only reminds me that I've got another 7 days of this. And that was 14 days ago. The way I feel about Philadelphia right now is probably about the same way sinners feel when they are in hell. I know I chose this path, even deserve it, and I'm sure I can look down the time line of my life and pinpoint a few, or many episodes where punishment was necessary, but this just seems a tad gratuitous. I never thought I would live to see the day where I would trade a pair of shorts and NBA jersey for some snow pants and a winter jacket, but I would willingly give up either for the chance to fall in a winter fishing hole in the wilds of Saskatchewan during a paralyzing snowstorm right now. I'm just sayin.