There are two kinds of Floridians: native born and transplants. There are two kinds of transplants: those that don’t mind the summers and those that do. There are two kinds of people who mind the summer weather: those that complain about it and those that don’t. I’m a transplant that doesn’t like the summer weather and is outspoken on the matter.

Coming in to work this morning, I had the occasion to flip the calendar to the new month (we’re not in May anymore Toto). The first thing that jumped out at me was that June 21 is the first day of summer (the summer solstice for those of you who are astronomically inclined). To those of us who live in Florida, June 21 is a relatively meaningless day. Summer weather has been with us for over a month now; forget about waiting another twenty odd days. Highs in the nineties, lows in the mid to upper seventies, humidity thick enough to go down the wrong pipe, direct sunlight that will burn unprotected skin in just over fifteen minutes, what’s not to like? Normally I would just go indoors and stay there, but my friend the air conditioner has betrayed me yet again.

WANTED: Catharsis suitable for a thirty-two year old male who is ready to go up in the attic and open a can of whoop ass on his air handler.