Weather

For every day that the weather is perfect, there are at least 8 days where something in the air inconveniences me. For those who haven’t caught me out in the wild, I’m a sweaty gal. Humidity, the sun, physical activity in general, all brings out the moisture in my nose and forehead. The makeup I use to make myself look awake is washed off by my salty, wet pores, revealing copious amounts of face grease, the occasional zit, or scar from last week’s acne moment. What’s worse is that I love the sun, it just so happens that my DNA does not appreciate it as much as my mental health does. Summer in the city is nothing like Aaron Burr makes it out to be in the Hamilton musical: it’s unbearable to walk anywhere, and it’s even more humid and sticky and disgusting in the subway. The sun acts like an easy bake oven, cooking up all the smells into a steaming dead rat and street-piss casserole.

When it’s hot out I long for fall, and when it starts to get cold, I beg the sky to stop making wind and smack me in the face with some sun beams. I’m not entirely sure what a “wind tunnel” is, but when it causes the snot in my runny nose to freeze, I wish I could crawl into a manhole and wait it out. It’s the age-old question of would you rather be freezing or overheating. Before I go outside into the sideways rain, there’s just one last thing and then I swear to god I’ll shut up about this forever, despite the atrocities of NYC climate, I’d still never trade it for “sunny California”