Horrid Humidity

Humidity takes a juicy, bright red apple and turns it into a bitter, withered lemon. It takes a pool of cool water and turns it into hot sand.

Most days, I am affixed to my duties: wake up, dress up, drink coffee, immerse in conversations about the complexity of simple-minded people with my mother, have breakfast, read. I sometimes run a few errands for my parents. I do all these with ease and haste. No problems confront me, everything is as smooth as a yacht on an oily, calm seabed on a warm summer's day.

However, when my dear fiend, humidity, comes along, my soul dispels all hope of completing my daily tasks and I am figuratively dragged down to the floor, where I wither and waste away what could have been a perfectly positive and productive day.

My otherwise pale face takes on a shade of amber, and I appear as though I have been sleepless for three centuries. I end up looking like a hungry vampire, imprisoned in cobblestone-covered walls inside a dungeon, shied away from the moonlight or the ability to feast on fresh blood. I become lifeless, almost worthless, and I sweat away whatever fluids I had consumed prior to the attack of horrid humidity.

I become sluggish. Moving, in itself, becomes a task. It becomes one difficult to pursue, to undertake. To have me moving whilst under the attack of humidity should be deemed miraculous - if I had a choice of being burnt alive, no wait, I would not choose that. Humidity is not all that bad, but it is rather horrid. The only reasons behind any movement on a humid day would be to acquire water, and after that acquire more water. Some movement also goes to the acquisition of ice-cream. Though, gelato is rather preferable - orange flavored gelato.

In complaining about humidity though, I think back on those winter nights where I wished summer was back. I think back on driving with the windows up and three jackets on, and wishing for summer to return so that I could wind the windows down, and turn the music up. I was wrong with the thought of feeling the breeze in my hair in the duration of this though, because now, with this humidity, my hair is so limp and frizzy that a biscuit dipped in coffee can stand straighter. Now I wish that winter would return. And when it does, and brings with it the flu, I will wish again for humidity to visit - it's a constant cycle.

With humidity, though, I surprisingly feel comfort. I have not yet grown out of feeling as though if I slept uncovered, a monster would reach for my foot and pull me away from safety. Humidity acts like a blanket. I do not need to be covered by my quilt because I am blanketed by an invisible layer of utter heat, a sweaty, sticky force-field that the Boogeyman would dare not even attempt to penetrate. This not only annoys me, but it also comforts me - and my parents, for that matter, for they view my possible suitors, even though they would not dare enter my room seeing as I am fathered by the epitome of the Hulk, as Boogeymen. Chances are that if what humidity does to my otherwise silky, smooth, clean body, scares off monsters, it will also scare off those men. In most ways, therefore, humidity keeps me celibate.

Humidity eliminates monsters, men, cleanliness, sleep and dignity. It resuscitates insomnia, and creates sudden deadly mood swings. It turns my head of hair into the likeness of a  Sasquatch's pubic hair. However, I prefer it more than I prefer the misery that is winter, because until I find another lonesome soul, winter will be unenjoyable, in the same way that having a spouse in humid times makes one uneasy.