By a man who thought Virginia summers were supposed to be charming and full of fireflies, not the actual fires of hell.
It is currently 102°F in Richmond, Virginia. That’s not a heatwave—that’s the sun filing a restraining order against us for getting too close. The weather app isn’t even pretending anymore. It just says “Good luck.”
Now, I’ve lived through some hot days. I’ve grilled ribs in Texas. I’ve sweated through July in Mississippi. I even did a stint in Saudi Arabia, where the official state bird is just a puff of smoke where a pigeon used to be. But this? This is different. This is biblical. This is “open the door and get punched in the lungs by a hairdryer full of soup” hot.
And then the power company, bless their clueless little hearts, sends out an email saying we should all set our thermostats to 78°F “to help the grid.” Listen. I tried. I did. I set it to 78F and sat very optmistic, like a monk meditating in a rice paddy. It was still hot enough in the house to roast a Cornish hen on the coffee table. I started hallucinating. I think I saw Elvis in the ceiling fan.
Outside isn’t better. You step into the shade thinking, “Ah, relief,” only to discover the shade is also sweating. There’s no breeze. Just hot, angry air moving around like it’s mad at you. The squirrels? Gone. Birds? Gone. Even the raccoons have packed their bags and moved to Michigan. All that’s left are a few sweaty little bugs flying around like, “Hey, sorry, we hate this too.”
And now I can’t stop thinking—is this climate change? Is this it? Are we going to crank this oven a little higher every year until July just becomes a month-long game of “Don’t Die”? Because if so, I want out. I loathe this. I really hate it; in the way I hate people who merge without using their turn signals. The kind of slow-burning rage that bubbles up from the soul. And the thought that this heat might just keep getting worse every year? Makes me wanna run into the nearest walk-in freezer, curl up next to the frozen sustainable yogurts, and nurse a full-blown existential meltdown.
And don’t even talk to me about the car. The seats are lava. The steering wheel is a medieval torture device. The umbrella’s still in the trunk like, “LOL, what do you think I am, useful?” And yet, the weather forecast has the audacity to say “chance of rain Thursday.” Right. And I’ve got a bridge in Death Valley to sell you.
Even my dog—my sweet, enthusiastic, ride-or-die companion—had a full emotional breakdown. We took two steps out the front door. He looked at me like I’d just betrayed him personally, and then marched back inside like Clint Eastwood after a bad cup of coffee. His paws hit the pavement like he was filing a formal complaint with HR. I swear he mouthed, “You’re on your own, dad.”
So here I am. Indoors. Air conditioning cranked down to arctic tundra, electric bill be damned. I’m drinking iced tea like it’s going out of style, sticking my head in the freezer every half hour, and Googling “how to live underground with dignity.”
Virginia, I love you. But right now? You’re trying to kill me.
A Kings 
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